When You Wish Upon A Star
by Exterminatedaffodils123
Summary: One night, a green flash appears in the sky. A shooting star? Three people make a wish upon it, and the world changes. The Doctor and Mel arrive in the aftermath, and must find a way to put history back on track. But a mysterious creature is trying to stop then, and will stop at nothing in its mission. Be careful what you wish for - because you might just get it.
1. Chapter 1 - The Pawns

Part 1: Setting the Pieces

Chapter 1 – The Pawns

It was a cold night.

Fisher slowly shut the back door behind him, careful not to wake up the children. It clicked quietly, and he released his pressure on the handle.

Staring up at the sky, he took a sip from the cup of tea in his hands, letting the warm liquid flow down his throat and throughout his veins, before lowering the cup onto the table beside him.

The garden wasn't as big as he would've liked – the back wall was only eight feet or so from the house, but even in that small space, he had managed to almost completely fill it with weeds and toys and tools and old lawn furniture. Every bank holiday, or strike, or sick day he always vowed to sort it out, give it a good clean and spruce the whole place up. The first time he had said that, Jenny was pregnant with their first child.

Their third was now entering primary school.

Bitterly, he sat down on the chair accompanying the table. The cheap plastic creaked under the pressure, threatening to snap and send him flying to the floor. But fortunately, it managed to survive.

Jenny and he both had jobs six months ago. Nothing fancy – she was a cleaner at the local high school and he was a shelf-stacker at the supermarket in town centre. Together, they'd put together the money every month for the mortgage, food and anything else they needed, and a good bit on the side for a rainy day or creature comforts.

That was six months ago.

It had started small. They'd barely noticed it, especially for the first few weeks. The odd dropped glass, or tripping up as she was getting ready, or muscle cramps every now and then. They'd brushed it off – the glass had just been washed; her foot had caught on her tights; she'd just slept funny.

Then it got worse.

One Monday, just in the middle of lunchtime, Jenny had been in the canteen at the high school. After a year 11 shoved a year 8 and sent a pot of spaghetti flying, a large red stain had been left across the floors. Jenny had been tasked with cleaning it up.

She had been mopping the floor, gradually wearing against the crimson mark. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Her grasp slipped for a second, and the mop shoved forward, skittering across the floor. A year 10 had caught his foot on the mop, and went flying through the air.

One broken nose later, Jenny was unceremoniously fired from her position.

That night, there had been tears, hugging and much comforting from both parts. By the time they went to sleep, they had both decided that Jenny would soon find a new job, and they'd be back on track soon enough. They went to sleep smiling with the scant relief offered to them.

Fisher had woken up screaming.

It was early in the morning, no later than three. At first, he'd thought it had been the fire alarm going off, or a nitro-crazed motorcyclist passing the house.

But next to him, only a few inches away, was Jenny, thrashing in her bed, sheer panic in her eyes.

The doctor told him that there was nothing they could do. A slow, dwindling death that would take it's time to come, and that the months she had left wouldn't be pleasant. Motor Neuron Disease. She couldn't work, and the kit she needed cost an arm and a leg.

The money, like Jenny, dwindled away bit by bit, until there was next to nothing left. Fisher had worked as much as he could, desperate to soak up whatever remnants of cash he could muster to help the family. But there was only so long he could work for, so much he go without seeing his family. Without seeing Jenny.

The store's manager was retiring, and the position was open. It would be a higher wage, of course, but with it, more time with his family. More time for Jenny.

Fisher scoffed to himself. He knew his luck. He knew it would happen. Mark Templar, a 19-year-old aspiring director had gotten the job.

He hadn't just wanted that job. He'd needed it. And now it was gone. If he could have one wish, that's what he'd want.

Realising, Fisher scoffed to himself. If he had one wish, he'd ask to be promoted to manager at the shop. He'd been offered a mile and asked for an inch.

By this point, the tea had gone stone cold. Without thinking about it, Fisher grabbed the mug and tossed the contents across the brown grass, shaking any pesky drops out.

Before he went back inside, he stared up at the inky black sky above him. One or two faint stars had managed to break past the light pollution and smile at him. When he was a child, he'd enjoyed star-watching for a few months, learning and recognising the constellations – Orion, Scorpius, the Big Dipper. This day and age, most people hear 'Big Dipper' and think straight of the rollercoaster.

However, there was a new star. Bright green, and only for a second. At first, he thought it was a plane passing by, but after that second, it wasn't seen again.

Gently, Naomi padded out onto the balcony, her mind engrossed in the sheet of paper in front of her. She'd been dreading the letter for weeks, ever since she'd first made contact with the agent.

The balcony was hanging outside of an apartment – not a flat, but an apartment, as she constantly found herself parroting to everyone she knew. It wasn't quite the penthouse, but only a few floors down from it.

It was a stylish blend of brown and white, with individual steel doors leading to the other rooms; wardrobe, study, spare rooms. In the corner of the main room was the kitchen, currently holding an upturned glass mug of decaffeinated mocha. It might not be good for the stomach, but it helped Naomi get to sleep.

Careful not to let the howling night air carry away the precious letter, her fingers clamped onto either side, as she scanned down it, pouring over every letter.

 _Dear Ms Redfern_ , it had read. _Thank you for your submission. However_ -

She stopped reading. It was a 'no'. Nothing good ever comes after 'However'.

Angry tears started to prick her eyes. That was her last hope. There were only so many agents in the country that would take on an unsolicited writer, and that was the last one. As more and more of them declined, many words of comfort were flung in her direction.

Dozens of agents turned down JK Rowling.

There's always someone else.

You'll get them next time.

Only now, there wouldn't be a next time. This was the last one.

She'd spent hours at a time cooped up in her room, hunched over her computer, always typing, revising, editing, planning, drafting. The time passed quickly – she'd go into her room just after dinner at 6, then glance at the clock and find it to be 4 in the morning. Many times, she wouldn't even sleep, going straight through to morning.

They hadn't even read past the first chapter. It all been for nothing.

The tears were now starting to flow, brimming from her eyes and tracing their way down her cheek. In frustration, Naomi folded the letter back into its original form, before tearing it into shreds, and letting the wind carry them into oblivion.

The ivory tatters floated through the air, before fading into specks and then into nothingness.

The writing had been an escape for Naomi, something her father's reputation couldn't carry her through. If she used a pen-name, then she was just someone ordinary, earning something based on their abilities, their skill. Not their surname.

That is, of course, until every agent in the country who had even the slightest chance of accepting you stamped your letter with the word 'NO'.

Gingerly, she peered down, at the streets below her. Even at this time of night, cars were whizzing up and down, the streetlights sending an orange haze up at her. A swarm of people, all speeding through life, oblivious of anyone stood in front, behind or to the side. How many of them were like her – struggling against the grain, trying to make it further than they secretly knew was possible, than they knew they wanted?

Her reverie was interrupted as a plane went overheard, a couple hundred metres above her. The apartment was on the main flight path to Heathrow – a fact which was probably the only downside to the location. So every now and then, they'd get a Boeing 747 giving its mighty roar as it passed by.

Instinctively, she craned her neck up to glare at the abomination in the sky. It had already passed, however, leaving a trail of white behind it.

Her eye flicked to the right, as someone flashed before her. A sudden moment of green, a mere pinprick in the night sky. Was it a star? She'd never seen a green star before – then again, thanks to the urban abode, she hadn't seen many stars at all.

It didn't matter. She wasn't going to earn anything moping about on the balcony, dreaming up stars. She brushed her hands of any shards of the paper, then returned to the warm apartment.

Eric shifted in his seat, in a futile bid to get comfortable. Unfortunately, the person next to him noticed, and simply glared in response.

He'd been sat on the plane for 3 hours by this point, ever since the airport in France. He'd just attended a conference with the French foreign secretary, and was hoping to get home just in time to say goodnight to his children and catch some sleep himself.

However, the flight had been delayed at every possible interval – first, the pilot had gone missing before the flight, which cost them half an hour whilst he was found. Secondly, they had met turbulence coming over the channel, and added another half an hour to the flight time whilst they manoeuvred around it; finally, due to a computer malfunction, they couldn't land at Gatwick and had been forced to relocate to Heathrow.

As a result, he was in a very bad mood.

As a child, back in the days before the politics and meetings and planning and subterfuge, he had a relatively simple upbringing. His mother and father worked 9 to 5, then came home for 6, every weekday. On the weekends, they'd visit his grandparents, a couple of miles out of the city. The pair, a quaint set of individuals, loved to fill his head with nonsense of superstition, fairies and goblins. One story that always rang in his mind was of a shooting star, and if you were to wish upon it, then your wish would true.

Nonsense, of course, but enjoyable nonsense.

Every night, he'd put himself to sleep dreaming of what would happen if his wish ever did come true – the fame, the fortune, the glory. But, as time and entropy will do to anything, his dreams started to erode, from the childish dwellings on fantasy to the cold wave of exhaustion at the end of a busy day.

Within a decade, he stopped having dreams, and just appreciated the black monotony that provided leave from the hectic noise of his life.

He'd sleep especially well tonight. After the day he'd had, he wasn't particularly bothered about waking up in the morning. Or ever.

After months upon months of planning, his party had been hedging their bets on this conference – gaining the support and therefore votes they needed, showing political opponents for their truths, getting the experience most cynics derisively criticised their lack of.

But it had all gone wrong, thanks to a single slip-up. Upon meeting the French foreign secretary, Eric's translator had slipped up for a second, stumbling over the _'voir'_ in _'Ravi de vous voir'_. After that, the rest of the conference regarded his opinion less and less, until it was outright ignored by the end of the first day.

Eric had dropped a few hints about this to his fellow members that evening, quietly requesting that his stance be taken more seriously. They'd laughed at it in return.

Shortly after, the event was spread like butter across social media, and his party was in the gutter. He could barely stand attending the second day of the conference.

And thus, the kingdom was lost, all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

He had boarded the plane in silence, despite the various people badgering him with questions, desperate for his opinion on the matter. But as it happened, 'no comment' can only go so far.

To his fortune, he had a seat next to the window, with a particularly uninterested passenger to his left, so he could manage the flight in peace. Uninterested until Eric shuffled about in his seat, naturally.

Eric found himself staring out of the window, trying to cut himself off from the hundreds of prying eyes surrounding him. The night sky wasn't that interesting, really – the same orange glow every city flashed at planes, no matter where you were in the world.

Only there was something new. A green glint.

Eric watched it, as it flashed in the sky. When it vanished, he craned his head around, looking for a possible source behind him – a watch, phone, something like that. Nothing to be found. Curious, he turned back to the window.

But the only thing he was met with was his own perplexed reflection, gazing at itself.

Jacob staggered through the street, his arms swinging from side to side like a rather bizarre interpretation of a gorilla. In fact, his mental state rather resembled one as well, at this exact moment.

As his left arm swayed like a drunken sailor, the glass bottle nestled in it slipped from his grasp and flew to the brick floor below.

The smashing alerting him to the sight, as he stopped his strut and glanced at the ground. Awkwardly, he fumbled with the remains, desperate to salvage the bottle and more importantly, the drink inside it, but it was no good. It had broken into three large chunks, and the liquid had flowed out and into the gutter by now.

Part of him was half-tempted to drop to all-fours and suck at it, but the dominant half of his mind resisted. Instead, he decided to continue his journey home – or wherever he happened to be wandering towards at the moment.

Suddenly, he stopped, his arms flailing in the air and his feet slipping on the wet pavement beneath him. At the last second, his hands grabbed hold of a wall beside him, and he steadied himself. However, the motion had set it off – he hunched over, and emptied his stomach onto the street before him.

A few minutes later, he cradled his burning throat, breathing ragged breaths and sweating, despite the icy air. This was the ninth night in a row he'd ended up like this – stumbling through the streets, shooting his liver and throats to bits, making a fool of himself. Everyone who knew his name and his face tutted at the news of his antics the next morning, scolding his foolishness. You could get yourself killed, they'd warn him over his breakfast of aspirin and tap water.

But that was the appeal. The chance that, in his drunken state, he could finally push the wrong bouncer too far, or take the wrong shortcut home, and that would be it. He'd black out in a pub in Peckham, and wake up in a hospital in Chiswick. And every time the nurse's face came into focus, the blinding light of the ER flooding his eyes, he damned himself, for failing another night.

Maybe this would be the night. The night he would free himself from this mortal coil, from this purgatory of suffering.

That's when he collapsed.

His feet, straining under the effort, gave way, and he fell backwards, landing on his back and cracking his head on the pavement. Nothing fatal, he was sure, but he'd have a bump in the morning.

As he stared at the sky, rambling internally about self-pity and despair, a green light flashed in his eyes. It didn't even register at first; just another stitch in his drunken tapestry. But then the figure appeared, just to his right.

Jacob twisted his head around, trying to catch a glimpse. It was tall and thin, with dozens of appendages connected to its body – some clicking and scuttling in the air, some tapping and tracing the ground. A trio of red orbs darted about within its bulbous, translucent belly, fixated on Jacob all the while.

Slowly, it approached him, the orbs concentrating on the pitiful individual before it. They began to glow brighter, every shade of crimson, scarlet, cerise and ruby. And Jacob began to scream.

No more than ten seconds later, the smashed bottle was all that remained of him.


	2. Chapter 2 - The King and the Queen

Chapter 2: The King and the Queen

For what seem like the thousandth time this morning, Melanie Bush put down her hairbrush and sighed.

She'd been working at the same few knots for the best part of an hour now, and a good half of the ginger frizz atop her dome was still a jumbled mess. Normally, she couldn't care less about her appearance; as long as it got the job done, she was fine with it. But she also had a habit of wanting to finish something once she started it, and thus, a job that could easily have been sorted with a bun and a hat, had instead taken most of her morning away.

Then again, it could very easily be afternoon, evening or midnight at this moment; you never could tell with the TARDIS. It generally tried to accommodate its anthropomorphic inhabitants for time – dimming the lights and raising them again to create a facsimile of day of night. Only it had a habit of forgetting to do so every now and then, which once involved Mel falling asleep at lunch, had a few hours of sleep and waking up again at breakfast.

That was the price that came with time travel; jet lag. That, and the absolute nightmare that was postcards.

After a few more minutes of slowly dragging her hair out of her skull, she managed to pacify the strands, and finished the look with a bow of dotted ribbon. Finally ready, she exited her bedroom and wandered down the TARDIS corridors.

Another design fault of the TARDIS was the sheer monotony of the corridors; despite the occasional marking stencilled onto the wall, they all looked the same, from the grey panelling of the floors to the roundel-dotted walls and slight curve of the roof. Unless you knew your way or, like Mel, possessed an eidetic memory, you'd be hard pressed to get in and out in a hurry.

Mel managed to make her way to the console room, carefully opening the door a crack and peering through. The Doctor was in one of his moods again, where he was determined to link a butterfly flapping its wings in Australia to a time disturbance in Scotland, or someone clicking their fingers in Shanghai to someone blinking on Lakertya. The whole universe was a great mess of mysteries, loose ends and enigmas, all knotted together in a single, complex scheme.

Not unlike Mel's hair, she noted to herself.

Silently, Mel opened the door, poking her head through the gap. The Doctor was facing the console, hard at work. As she opened her mouth to speak:

'Hello, Mel…' the Doctor muttered, without turning around. Mel was caught off-guard for a second, but soon realised – it's the Doctor. He probably learned telepathy whilst making a cup of tea. 'I like your dress,' he added, still with his back to her. 'But I'm not sure the bow suits you.'

By this point, Mel was quite frankly confounded.

'Doctor, how did-' she started to ask. The Doctor cut her off with his answer – non-verbal, naturally, but by raising his right hand and pointing. Mel followed the arm, hand, finger upwards…and reached a glass pane housed in a large metal box, hanging off of the ceiling. She looked into it, and saw the reflection of the Doctor grinning at her.

'Oh, I see!' she laughed. 'Very clever…what is it?'

'Ah!' the Doctor said, turning around to face Mel. 'A tri-dimensional audital matrix,' he said, rolling his tongue over the 'r'. 'Lets you glimpse back at days gone by…rather like a photograph in that respect.'

'So it's like a television?' Mel asked, walking towards the object.

'In a way, yes. Only instead of an aerial, it gets its signal from the time vortex.' the Doctor replied. 'Here, see!'

He walked over to the console and tapped away at the keys for a second. 'Now, suppose you wanted to see…your seventh birthday.' he said, returning his attention to the monitor once more. 'You'd just input the request…and voila!'

Mel watched as the screen morphed from its general black square to a blurry combination of blue and green. It started to clear, as the blue formed a sky and the green grass. She could even make out a child, in a pristine white dress and orange hair on top…

'It's me!' Mel cried, a smile on her face. The screen was now moving, like an old home movie. Everything was happened as she remembered; the trip to the countryside, her auntie tripping and falling into the cowpat, everything.

'You see, it can be quite an inventive tool…' mused the Doctor.

'Not to mention voyeuristic.'

'Not at all, Mel. It only works in someone's personal memories when they are nearby. Otherwise, it'll just go to static.'

As if on cue, the rural scene on the monitor faded into a sea of frantic black, white and grey.

'Just like that, Doctor?'

'Yes, Mel…something's wrong.'

'What?'

'The TARDIS!' the Doctor shouted, as the whole room started to lurch to one side. Mel moved with the room, but, to her thankfulness, the console was just in front of her. She managed to rest her hands on the cool metal surface, propping herself up with the console.

The TARDIS lurched again, this time to the other side. Mel went flying across the room, slamming into the wall behind her and slumped to the floor. Gently, she groaned to herself, rubbing the spot on her back where she hit the wall. She'll have a bruise, for certain…

A pillar of smoke poured out of a vent in the console, almost blowing the Doctor's Panama hat off. However, he clutched onto it with one hand, whilst working away furiously at the console with the other.

'It's something…' he muttered. 'Something she doesn't like!'

He whacked the console with the side of his fist, and the ruckus died down. In fact, everything died down. The TARDIS stopped jittering, the lights started to dim and the hum of the console faded into nothingness.

'What's happened?' Mel asked, dragging herself off of the floor. 'Have we arrived?'

'I think so, yes…' the Doctor murmured, inspecting the console. 'Something the TARDIS disagreed with…or it disagreed with the TARDIS. She didn't want to come here…'

'Is it alright?'

'Yes, I should think so. Just…sulking.'

'So, whatever it was that the TARDIS didn't like…' Mel started. 'Would it still be out there?'

The Doctor turned to her, and grinned that Cheshire Cat smirk of his.

'Of course.' he purred 'Shall we take a look?'

A minute later, the Doctor exited the TARDIS, locking the TARDIS behind him.

'I expect it'll right itself soon enough.' he said, turning the key in the lock. 'But for now, Mel…'

As he turned around, he saw Mel – or rather, her back. She was looking up at the council estate to their side; in particular, a fourth-floor window. A child was stood at it, gazing upon the strange people who had just appeared outside her window.

Mel smiled brightly, raising her hand and waving to the child – but they didn't wave back. Instead, the child just stared, looking at Mel.

'Mel?' the Doctor asked, holding a friendly smile in place the whole time.

'Yes, Doctor?' she replied, keeping her smile as well.

'I think it might be time to move on…'

'Yes.'

The two slowly raised their waving hands, before starting to move away from the window's view. As soon as they were out of sight, they snapped into a normal walk again; the Doctor using his umbrella as a walking stick and Mel letting her arms swing from side to side.

'So what was all that about?' Mel asked, jogging for a second to catch up with the Doctor.

'A mere juvenile curiosity, Mel. Something new turns up, you can't help but be fascinated.'

'Yes, I suppose so. Where are we going?'

'Back and forth, Mel, on an endless odyssey through the unknown and home again.'

'So you don't know?' Mel laughed, turning away from the Doctor for a second.

'Do any of us ever know?' the Doctor posed in response, half-serious.

Suddenly, he stopped. Mel carried on for a second, oblivious to the change, before stopping as well.

'Doctor?' she asked, spinning on the ball of her feet. She didn't get a reply. The Doctor was stood almost perfectly still, taking in a single, deep breath. 'Are you alright?'

'Can you taste that?' he asked, with the intonation of a schoolboy inspecting an insect in a jar. 'Just in the air…sort of…bitterness…'

'Taste what?' Mel asked, taking in a deep breath as well. After a moment's consideration, she added: 'Doesn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary. Bit…smoggy, but it's a city.'

'No, the bitterness. In the air…' the Doctor started, entranced by the taste. 'It's the taste of death.'

Suddenly, the Doctor dropped to the ground, with his legs extended and arms bent into a right angle, like he was about to do a press-up.

'Yes…' he grinned. 'That's it. It's much clearer down here!'

Mel looked around anxiously, playing the guard for the Doctor. The streets were completely empty, save for a prowling tabby cat currently rummaging through an upturned bin in the adjoining alleyway. Now taking comfort in the solace, she stooped down, meeting the Doctor at his level.

'Doctor, I can't smell anything.'

'No, no, not smell, taste, Mel, _taste_!' the Doctor said, a professor chiding an ignorant student.

'Well, I can't _taste_ anything either!'

'Can't you?' he asked, a little saddened at the news. 'Oh yes…humans. Only the 9 senses…' came his mutter, as he traced around the pavement. 'There's a fingerprint…'

'Really?!' Mel asked incredulously, looking at the ground.

'Not an _actual_ fingerprint,' the Doctor said. 'The indentation, the residue of an incident, just where we're standing. Not long…maybe last night?'

'An indentation?' Mel replied. 'Indentation of what?'

'Energy transferal. A lot of energy was moved very quickly, from one force to another. Some of it's going to be left behind, like a leaky pipe. Especially if it was quick as this…it was hungry. Feeding. Hence the sloppiness…'

'Doctor, what are you talking about?'

'Not sure, Mel.' the Doctor said. He stood up, using the umbrella as a prop. 'Probably just a spatio-temporal anomaly. Nothing to worry about.'

'Could that be what the TARDIS was reacting to before?'

'Yes, maybe…' the Doctor laughed, enjoying the thought. Then the laughing stopped. 'Oh no…' he muttered, staring into space. 'Mel?'

'Yes, Doctor?'

'I've just had a terrible thought. Come on.'

And with that, he started to run down the street, back the way they had arrived. Mel stood there for a second, flustered by the event, before running after him.

She stopped for breath against a wall, resting her foot against it whilst she drew deep, panting breaths. Just over her should, plastered to the wall, was a poster, several months old and showing it – the yellowing paper, once white, was now peeling at the edges, with dozens of graffiti over the top. But the poster was still legible.

In huge, emblazoned letters, it read: VOTE ERIC CHAMBERS, FOR A THIRD SUCCESSFUL TERM. VOTE NATIONAL THIS ELECTION DAY. And above the text was an image, in black and white but striking nonetheless, of a man, glaring at the camera, demanding the attention of anyone whose eye it happened to catch.

It was Eric.

Two minutes later, Mel had managed to catch up with the Doctor, after running flat out the entire time. Meanwhile, the Doctor, having barely broken a sweat, was stood in place, overlooking the courtyard. He held his hat to his chest, as if observing a passing hearse.

'Doctor?!' Mel gasped, between breaths. 'What was all that about?'

'It's my fault, Mel…' the Doctor murmured, clutching onto his mournful tone. 'It was me.'

'Well, what was it?' she asked, having finally regained her breath. And then the realisation started to dawn on her.

When she caught up with the Doctor, she'd been fixated on his, concentrating solely on where he was going, what he was doing, as anyone would. But she hadn't noticed where he'd led them to. The courtyard, with a council estate to the side.

It was where they had initially arrived.

Mel even found herself looking up at the window, just to see if the children was still there, looking down upon them. It did seem, however, that they had retreated from the viewpoint. Whether than was an omen for good or for bad, Mel wasn't sure.

She then thought about _why_ the Doctor had brought them here. Maybe it was more of the energy residue he'd felt – _tasted_ , back in the other street? No, it wouldn't be that urgent, that panicked if it had.

She was on the verge of simply asking the Doctor what was wrong, letting him feel the smug satisfaction of his superior intellect. It always happens like that, doesn't it? Whenever you're given a riddle, or a challenge, it always bests you. But whenever you ask for the answer, or a clue, it comes to you, in a blinding flash of light.

Mel started to look around her – over her shoulders, behind the wall, the way they'd come in. But none of it worked. Soon enough, she realised what the Doctor had meant. Why he was so desperate to return here, and how stupid she was for not realising it so much earlier.

The two of them stood in the courtyard, where they had first arrived in this time and place in the TARDIS.

But the TARDIS was nowhere to be seen.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Knight

Chapter 3: The Knight

Ellis sat back in the car, taking a deep breath as he chewed the gum. He released the breath as a heavy sigh, not once taking his eyes off of the house in front of him. He'd been paid to do a job, and he was bloody well going to do it.

His editor had given him a single task – get the photo, and bring it to him. That was all.

He must've taken thousands of photos over his admittedly short career, around two hundred of which had been published in the paper. This was going to be his first front-cover photo, if all went to plan.

The bulky camera lay in his lap, loaded with the film and fully charged. His car was parked in one of the few places in the region that allowed you to see past the turrets of foliage and into the house – not very much, but enough to gather if something interesting was happening.

An anonymous tip had given his editor the news of a party taking place at the house that evening, which was a recipe for disaster. Things always happened at parties, things that passed into the bitter regret of dawn in a few hours.

All Ellis had to do get photo evidence of one of these things happening. Do that, and he'd be paid a small fortune. Better still, he could go directly to his unwilling model's front door, and ask for a bribe to not publish the image. Then, when the underhand money had been dealt, publish it anyway.

Except he was now sat outside the house, chewing his way through what was now his fourth pack of gum, staring at a few windows in a house he couldn't afford to know about.

For the first hour or thereabouts, it had felt like he was a detective in a 70s show, staking out a building and waiting to catch the suspect before chasing them backalleys when they emerged.

After then, he just felt like a prat in a car.

Sir Edward Fisher had been in and out of his paper over the years; nothing too big or scandalous, but just enough so that the average punter would recognise his face and name.

He inherited a supermarket corporation off of his father in the 70s, making him already quite wealthy to begin with. Then, he made some wise investments, mostly in films and stocks, but his fortune swelled like a balloon. The only was that nobody when the balloon would pop.

There was a feature a couple of years ago about him; three years prior, he'd bought fifty per cent of shares in a small business delivering parcels around Manchester. By the article was put to press, there was an advert two pages back for that very firm – Cairo to Kingston, Munich to Melbourne.

Ellis gave a little laugh. That advert had always stuck in his head. It should do, really – he'd come up with it.

Finally, Ellis could remember the news article, not a few months ago. It detailed the death of Sir Fisher's wife, tragically cut down before her time by Motor Neuron Disease. The doctors had been able to extend her time left on this earth – they'd found it quite early – but her days were numbered nonetheless. Sir Fisher was left a widower, with three children.

Ellis took the photos at the funeral.

He rolled down the window and tosses the silver foil from the wrapper out of the window, before opening the fifth packet. A large part of him was tempted to give it up as a bad job and go home, but an even larger part could hear the beckoning call of avarice.

The light clicked on in the window, and Ellis sat up in his seat. Showtime.

Quietly – though it wouldn't really make a difference at this range – he opened the car door and stepping onto the wet grass, before gently, and more importantly, silently, shutting the car door behind him.

The camera on a strap around his neck, he walked away from the car and towards the gap in the foliage. Standing on his tiptoes, he just about managed to see over it, and look at the house.

Something was definitely happening, but he was too far away to tell what. It was no good. He'd have to get in closer.

Now, he wasn't a very tall man, clocking in at five foot five, but that meant he was light. So light, in fact, that the nimble branches of the tree in front of him should be able to support his weight – should being the operative word.

Grasping onto the lengths of wood, he managed to haul himself into position, before planting his feet into a foothold and starting to climb. It wasn't the best thing he'd done all night, but it was going to be worth it.

After a couple of seconds, he was above the barbed wire fence running around the perimeter of the house. He started to work his way across the gap, stepping from branch to branch. The rain-drenched leaves licked him as he passed, leaving dark trails of liquid on his overcoat.

The grass sloped up to meet the fence at rather a sharp incline, meaning that the further away Ellis went from the barbed wire, the further down he'd have to drop.

Ellis peered down from the branch he was currently stood on, trying to work out the difference. It seemed to be around six feet in total, which he's fallen before and been no worse for wear. In desperation, he glanced up at the window – the door to the room was open, and Sir Fisher himself was walking through it. He didn't have long.

Taking a breath, Ellis decided. He was going to squat down, grab onto the branch and hang from it, before dropping the last few feet onto the grass. Then, he'd run down the slope to a vantage position, and gets the snaps. Perfect.

Except that isn't _quite_ what happened.

He squatted, as he had planned. But the wood was wetter than he anticipated, and he slipped right off, before dropping onto the grass with a squelch and a thud.

Before he could stop himself, he started to roll down the slope, the rainwater splashing onto him from every which way but loose. Without thinking, he struck out his hand, which dug into the dirt within a second.

He jolted as he stopped, but he'd stopped.

Stopped…in one of the rectangles of light cast onto the grass by the open windows. Which made him perfectly visible to anyone inside the house.

Ellis yelped, scrambling out of the light and back into the darkness. Thankfully, nobody glanced out of the window and saw him, but he managed to hide just in time anyway. Underneath the cloak of a large tree, he readied the camera, raising it to his eye.

And he waited. And waited.

The light stayed on the entire time, in the silence of the night air, save for a few thrilling animals hooting and cawing in the blackness. That was strange, Ellis realised.

He must only be a few hundred feet from the house. But it was silent. Even if it was a quiet deal of party, he should be able to hear some form of music, cars coming and going, people taking a stroll or talking. But there was nothing.

Just silence.

Ellis felt a shiver run down him spine for a moment, so he tugged his overcoat a little tighter – not that it did much good, what with the constant rain and already soaked coat.

Finally, someone came to the room. Ellis perked up, sitting up a little straighter and moving the camera up, so it was just a few inches below his face. With keen, piercing eyes, he observed the window, watching every single object for action.

The door opened. Previously, it had been ajar, but now it was all the way, completely wide.

Sir Fisher walked through, dressed immaculately in a black dinner suit and finely combed toupee. He shut the door behind him, and sat down at the desk in the centre of the room.

And that was it.

Ellis sighed in frustration. If he had come all this way out, trudged through the wind, rain and mud, climbed over that _bloody_ tree for a picture of a rich bloke sat a desk, he was going to give his editor hell in the morning.

He even contemplated quitting, right there, on the spot. Sod your photo job, I'll find another paper, so long and thanks for all the fish.

As Ellis sat there, lost in his fantasy of freedom, he failed to notice a glow passing through the wall in the room. It was bright green, shaped roughly like a beachball and the size of one too. As more and more of it passed through the wall, its spindly limbs clicking at the floor became visible, as did the four red dots inside it.

By the time Ellis managed to free himself from his fixation, the green being was completely through the wall. He noticed the figure in the corner of his eye, and managed to shake himself out of it.

Like a shot, he raised the camera to his eye.

'Now you're talking...' he muttered to himself, pressing down on the button. Snap.

He hadn't the slightest idea what it actually was, but it was definitely something, and that was enough for him. Maybe it was a new range for his stores, or a flashy toy he'd bought for one of his children?

Snap. He got another photo, as the toy approached Sir Fisher. It got a few metres closer, almost floating seamlessly through the air – snap.

Ellis felt himself grinning; he could practically feel the money pouring into his bank account.

Then the camera was lowered.

It wasn't out of respect – Ellis cared about that just as much as it seemed to care about him. Rather, it was out of shock.

A green mist seemed to flow out of Sir Fisher, floating through the air, then sucking itself into the green object, like a vacuum cleaner with cigarette smoke. The red orbs grew and fell as the mist poured into the being, like it was swallowing and digesting it.

Ellis stared at the event dumfounded, raising the camera absent-mindedly. However, he failed to notice one very important thing; he'd knocked a little switch on the side of the camera.

He placed his eye to the camera, and focused it – Fisher and the being phased in and out of zoom as he adjusted it, and then it was ready. He pressed the button; snap.

There was a blinding flash of light.

As it reflected around the house, Ellis felt himself recoiling from it, mostly due to the surprise. As he stared at the camera, the horror of what he's just done started to sink in. He'd clicked the flash on.

Fisher noticed the light in the room, and had already stood up to look through the window. His face was contorted with anger already; he was stick to death of people like this!

In reaction, Ellis clambered to his feet, and ran back over to the fence and, much more importantly, the tree. He hooked the camera strap around his neck, then leapt up into the air. Luckily, he managed to snag the lowest branch on his first go, and started to climb up the tree.

Across the grass, the being was shifting itself through the glass window, as if the panes were simply a waterfall. A moment or so later, it was through. It darted across the grass, each of its pincers digging into the ground as it passed. The red orbs started to glow, as it reached the slope.

By this point, Ellis was on the other side of the fence. Bracing himself, he leapt out of the tree and landed in a heap six feet below, amongst the mud.

Without taking a second to even notice his bruises, he started to run across the ground and towards his car. He tugged open the door and slammed it shut, twisting the keys as much as he could, the engine roaring in preparation.

'Come on, come on, come on!' he muttered in annoyance, whacking the dashboard with his palm. He didn't know _exactly_ what the thing was, but he'd still prefer to get away from it.

It had passed through the fence, with its rear just detaching from the tree. It approached steadfast towards the car, its appendages clicking in the air as they got closer and closer towards the car, only an inch or so away from the window…

The engine purred into life, and Ellis slammed the reverse pedal down with all his strength. In a second, the car had carried Ellis a good few metres away from the creature.

Ellis changed his foot to the accelerator, sending the car flying forward. He twisted the wheel around, letting the vehicle skid around the corner, which sent chunks of mud and dirt flipping up and tossing in the air.

As the car rushed down the country path, Ellis glanced in the rearview mirror, he watched the being turn into a tiny green speck in the horizon. He let out a sigh of relief. He'd made it.

Sir Fisher watched as the being returned from the grass and passed through the window.

'Did…did you get them?' he asked, nervously attaching his hands together.

' _The human escaped_.' gurgled the creature, its appendages clicking more furiously and erratically. ' _It has evidence of us. It must be destroyed_.'

'The evidence?'

' _The human_.'

'Isn't that a little, er…'

' _Any information regarding us must be taken with utmost sincerity_.' it bubbled, passing through Sir Fisher's desk.

'I know, but the photos can easily be dealt with-'

' _It has taken place in its memory. The memory must be destroyed_.'

'I see.' Sir Fisher murmured, turning away from the creature. 'I suppose, we could…find a way to wipe his memory, or something like that…'

' _The memory wipe is compulsory_.' the creature warbled. ' _The elimination is for pleasure_.'

'Well, I think I got a good look at him. I'll phone the police in the morning. When they find him, you can have at him!'

' _Morning. That is…eight hours, thirty-two minutes and four seconds away. Enough time to spread information about us_.'

'A…alright, I'll call them now…'

' _Expected. It interrupted the feed session, a vital component of our species. See that it does not happen again_.'

'I, I will…' Sir Fisher murmured, walking towards the phone. He picked it up and dialled 999.

As he raised the speaker to his ear, he watched as the creature passed through the wall and exited the room.

'Police.'

Suddenly, Sir Fisher dropped the phone, clutching his hands to his temple. Searing pain, white hot like a stream of boiling water running through his mind. He began to moan, unable to do anything else under the strain of the agony.

Flashes of an image started to buzz in his mind…no, no, images, several of them. It was a house, semi-detached, the sort of house he used to live in, before he inherited his father's bounty. Most likely on a council estate, but not one he'd ever seen in his life.

The speaker clanged against the table, a crackled voice sounding through it:

'Sir? Sir? Sir Fisher? Are you alright, sir?'

Sir Fisher drew in a great, gasping breath, then stood upright. The pain vanished, as quickly as it had come. Now, the searing heat was fading into non-existence, like waking up from a dream.

Gathering his senses, he picked up the phone.

'Yes, sorry about that. Sir Fisher here, I'd like to report a crime…'

Two and a half miles away, a battered, run down Vauxhall sped down the country lane, easily doing 70 miles per hour, which was probably about double what it was built to do.

Inside, its driver, Ellis, was contemplating slowing down, if only in order to avoid the attention of the police.

Because, if he was honest, he was terrified.

Somehow, that _thing_ had managed to pass through the window, fence and tree, then come close to catching Ellis. Of course, it was a possibility that he was getting worked up over what was essentially a somewhat clever optical illusion.

The window might've been a fake, a projection of some sort, but that tree was definitely solid, that was for certain. He didn't even know what the thing was – it could've just been a toy, or a bizarre, avant-garde security measure.

Ellis sighed. It didn't matter. He had the camera, and was well on his way home now. In around an hour, the photos would be developing, he'd be enjoying a nice cup of tea, then on the phone with his editor.

He wasn't quite sure who would be interested the pictures, per se – perhaps the science crowd, or the conspiracy nuts? Either one, they'd be desperate to work out what it was, what it all meant for society.

Without taking his eyes off of the quickly-passing road, he patted the camera on the passenger seat beside him, letting out a quivering breath of relief. He'd made it.

As he let out a celebratory whoop, the car zoomed down the path, moving on into the night.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Rook

Chapter 4: The Rook

In the large ornate hall of the Centre, Eric left out a weary sigh.

He'd been working at the papers for what seemed like an eternity now, and was definitely ready for a rest. Gently, he placed the fountain pen down onto the desk, and sat back in his chair, massaging his temple.

The Centre had once been a town hall – specifically, the town hall in Dibton. It was a small constituency, only a few hundred people in the village limits, but it had prominence to the Party.

Dibton was where they started.

Once upon a time in Dibton, there was a coal mine, which provided the majority of the income for the village. It wasn't the safe place to work, but the miners all knew that. They were willing to take the risk, if it meant bringing home a wage once a month and feeding their families.

But the people upstairs weren't happy with this. So, they shut down the mines, one by one.

The people of Dibton gathered together, and decided to do something about it. Instead of striking against the closures – look how much good it did the other mines – they decided to make a show of it.

A small band of them travelled to London, with the intention of making damn well sure every politician knew about the struggle they were going through. They would bring the fight out of the villages, and into the cities.

Needless to say, it didn't work.

They got as far as Trafalgar Square when one of their members were stopped by a policeman. They'd been behaving suspiciously, and the bobby wanted to make sure nothing was amiss, what with the meeting in parliament that afternoon.

One quick search later, the member was found carrying explosives, hand-to-hand weapons and canisters of tear gas swiped from the police a few months prior. They were arrested immediately, and the rest of the group tracked down in London.

Luckily, they managed to either dispose of or hide the equipment before they were caught, and so were found completely innocent when the lot of them were taken to court over the matter.

Except for the fool who had gotten himself caught over the matter and blown the whole plan – one Eric Chambers.

He was only 19 at the time, so the judge decided it was less of a political conspiracy and more of a juvenile trick, then rambled on about something involving today's society and the lacklustre standard of the education system.

Eric was committed to 18 months volunteer work to pay off his debt to society, then he was, for all intents and purposes, free to go.

The Party wasn't as considerate.

'You idiot!' they called at him, as he trudged his way into the village hall. 'What the hell have you done?!'

As Eric spent his 18 months helping every tier of society, he had time to think. Think about how he can redeem himself to his party, but to his people as well. The scheme in London was to give them the attention they needed, get the general public interested in their problems – maybe even get the support they needed.

And so he listened. He listened to the OAPs moaning about foreigners in the care home; he listened to the police complaining about the homelessness and unemployment issues they have to deal with; he listened to the working classes grumble about the political parties, how all they did was squabble with each other and levy for a speck of power in the House of Commons.

After his time was up, he fully understood who he was representing. He knew what they wanted, and he knew for what they were looking. A true leader.

He composed the manifesto for the Party, compiling every single scrap of information he picked up over his service. And when it was complete, he presented it to them, offering it over as an apology.

Within a week, he was the official face and leader of the Party.

One of the most important things a party needed was a symbol – something that ring in the people's minds, echo the sense of hope and loyalty they feel towards the party. One of the accountants came up with it: A bird.

It wouldn't be a dove, because there wasn't room for peace these days.

It wouldn't be a skylark, because song and joy had no place in a party.

It would be a symbol of the ruthlessness and sincerity with which they would strike, the precision and strength they carry on their banner.

It would be a rook.

And thus, the black silhouette of a rook was emblazoned onto their flags, amongst a sea of brilliant scarlet.

One such flag hung above Eric right this second.

Every morning, when he came into work and sat down at his desk, he'd see it. To others, it would act as a remembrance of what they were striving towards, what they must keep in mind.

To Eric, it reminded him of his youthful arrogance, his former belief that his ideology was too rash, too much too soon. But it was too late by this point. He'd crossed the point of no return.

If he resigned from his post now, whilst they were at the apex of their power, the Party would lose all support; if their founder and leader didn't have the faith, then nobody would.

Every day, he was reminded of his failure ten years ago, and every day it ate away at him, just a little bit more.

It wasn't an easy struggle, climbing to power. They had to contend with the wrath of the press, for starters. Many smart-alec reporters were quick to draw comparisons with the Nazis, P.S.I. or the B.U.F., none of which went down too well with the voters. In fact, there was a temporary rash of vandalisms amongst students up and down the country, as they'd find one of Eric's campaign posters and draw a 'Hitler-moustache' on it.

As if God was smiling on them, it all faded away after their first election, which was a total failure. Over the next four years, they managed to rouse the people by their sides – the unemployed, the sick, the tired.

By the time the next important May rolled around, they were ready to win. Eric could remember that night vividly, the way he sat in the armchair all night, too frightened to even move a muscle, in case it would somehow jinx the Party's outcome.

It was a landslide for them.

They claimed a vast majority, thanks to the combined efforts of some similarly-minded right wing parties, in the House of Commons, which they very quickly used to make a majority for themselves in the House of Lords, one way or another. That's when the laws began.

They started by removing any immigrants from the country – Britain was a land for the British, after all. Any jobs this left free, they gave to the unemployed. Two birds had been pelted with one stone: The migrant crisis and unemployment were both resolved.

Many people stated their discomfort with this; but their cries fell upon deaf ears. The Party was growing stronger and stronger by the day, and were unwilling to listen to even the wisest of aides.

Next, they moved onto the homeless population of the country. After four months, more than 90% of Britain's homeless were off British streets.

Granted, they were now on French, Spanish and German streets, thanks to a secret human-trafficking program, but nobody knew about that side. After all, nobody likes to know how the magician managed to make the elephant disappear, or the rabbit come out of the hat.

Some started to investigate the Party's ways, citing that old adage: If it's too good to be true, then it probably is. They didn't get very far.

They were passed off to the press as political opponents, trying to find a way to spread slanderous nonsense about the Party just in time for the upcoming election. As predicted, the media quickly turned on them, ridiculing them as sore losers, and no better than common thieves.

By the time the election rolled around, the Party had a complete majority in Parliament, which meant that they had absolute power. The first thing they did was solidify this power, by outlawing any other political parties in the UK. They didn't want anyone else trying to cut them off before their work is done.

Next, they removed voting from the general public, and left it as just a facet of parliament. The people started to react negatively, which the Party didn't like. Not one bit.

The Party managed to grab hold of a few choice individuals, who were branded the ring-leaders of the rioters. They were given a short bout of 'questioning', then taken to a camp, just off the coast of Cornwall.

Their story was given to the main news channels, carrying the warning: 'Follow in their footsteps in the mainland, and you'll follow them to the island.'

Eric was rather ashamed to say that the island was his idea. He could remember seeing it on holiday as a boy, on a rare excursion outside of the county. They'd gone to visit relatives in Devon, and rented a boat for a day or so.

The island has a horrid, craggy mess, only a few miles in diameter. The sea around it was notoriously treacherous, and had slain many a boat in its time.

The prisoners were taken to the island and deposited there – then left behind as the boat when into the distance. Every month, a boat was sent there from the mainland, carrying new inmates or supplies they might need. Apart from that, they were on their own. If they wanted to protest, they were welcome to. If they wanted to try and swim back to shore, they were welcome to. If they wanted to jump off a cliff and break their necks, they were welcome to.

There weren't many riots after that.

Eric wasn't quite sure when he gave up hope for the Party. It started with the noblest of intentions, but even he had to confess that he could barely recognise this group of people, who were once a small committee in Dibton, discussing work over tea and biscuits.

And around ten years after sitting in that police cell overnight, he was now sat in a huge round chamber, the sort you'd see in museums – or a mausoleum. Marble walls ran to the roof and back, with paintings and trinkets from every art gallery in the country.

'Hard at work, sir?' chirped a voice from down the hall. Eric glanced up, before returning to the paper.

'More or less…' Eric replied, looking away from the man who had just entered the hall.

His name was Oliver, a particularly obsequious aide assigned to him by the other leaders of the Party. He couldn't have been any more than 21, but certainly made up for it in enthusiasm.

'Good to hear!' Oliver grinned, striding over to the desk. He sat down on the edge, looking down at Eric. 'The press are outside.'

'Tell them to bugger off.'

'I have. Unless one's name is 'Eric Chambers', they don't seem to want to give one the time of day.'

'Alright.' Eric sighed, laying down his pen. 'Tell them Eric Chambers said…bugger off.'

Oliver paused for an awkward second, before letting out a laugh of relief.

'Will do, sir.' He chuckled, walking away from the desk. Eric watched as the man walked away from the desk and through the door. He released his breath. At last, he was alone.

Eric cursed at himself silently, forcing himself to return to his work. In the last half an hour, he'd only completed a handful of pages, far beneath his usual work rate.

Pressing the nib of his pen against the ancient paper, he started to scrawl.

Far across the country in London, in a grotty little café beside a grotty little train station sat a grotty little man, who was reading a paper.

Well, that's what it looked like he was doing, to the untrained eye.

But to anyone nosy enough to keep watching him, they would be able to see that he was checking his watch every couple of seconds, waiting desperately for the minute hand to reach the hour. It was10.59 at this second, with only 40 seconds to go until the hour.

He had abandoned the cup of black coffee, letting it go stone cold.

Behind the counter, the waitress kept an eye on him, whilst she mopped down the work surface and restocked the biscuit tin. This man had been reading the same page of the paper for the last half an hour, and hadn't taken a single sip of his drink.

The watch ticked the most important second in the world. It was the hour.

The waitress wasn't sure, but she couldn't sworn she saw the man smile. He rose from his seat and exited the café, depositing a handful of coins onto the counter for the unused coffee.

As he exited the café, he pulled out a walkie talkie, and clicked it on. Quietly and hurriedly, he whispered in it:

'We're go. Go!', before clicking the button which turned it off.

Then, he dropped the walkie talkie onto the ground and, with a single strike of his foot, he crushed the device into shards.

In Dibton, the press had gathered outside the Centre, like a pack of ravenous bloodhounds, all waiting for the story that would satisfy their hunger.

Amongst the swarm was a woman, small enough to be able to slip through the crowd unnoticed, but with a backpack half her size on her back.

She worked her way to the front of the crowd, right up against the metal rail that ran around the outside of the Centre. Thanks to a mole she'd been connected with, she knew the layout of the Centre like the back of her hand; around the side, up the fire escape and down through the main skylight. Piece of cake.

She rallied herself, taking a scarce few breaths, before making a leap.

In a second, she vaulted over the rail, her feet pounding against the floor as she ran around the side of the building.

'Oi!' called a security guard, dressed in the signature black uniform and white shirt. He started to charge towards her, arms chopping through the air as he did so.

The woman reached into her pockets, and pulled out the device she'd been given. As she ran, she tossed it over her shoulder letting it clang onto the floor.

There was an almighty flash behind her.

The security guard dropped to the ground, his hands clawing to cover his eyes from the light. By the time his vision was restored, the woman was long gone.

Eric heard the bang from the hall, standing up. As countless thoughts and theories poured into his head, he worked to banish or dismiss all of them.

He unlocked the door, and poked his head through. Up and down the corridor, various clerks, guards and aides were dashing about, fixed in a great panic.

'Sir!' cried a voice from down the corridor. Oliver approached the hall door, before sprinting through it. 'Someone's let off a flash grenade outside. They've come into the building. Stay inside your office, lock the door, don't let anyone in!'

'Y-yes, okay…' stammered Eric, obeying his aide. Almost in a trance, he backed into the hall, and then locked the door behind him.

He walked into the centre of the office, crossing his hands behind his back. Outside, the various cries of panic and disarray were muffled by the thick wooden door and walls, but still managed to creep towards him.

There was a creaking. Eric stared around the office in confusion, looking for the source. All around him, nothing appeared to be moving. And then he looked up.

In the roof of his office was a skylight, one of the few parts of the original village hall they'd kept in the renovation.

And standing on the skylight was a figure, opening one of the glass panels, a black rucksack to their side.

They opened the window a crack, and raised a mess of wires and other components to the gap, sliding it through. Eric just stared in horror, too scared to move or call for help.

'Fascist scum!' the figure shouted, dropping the bundle into the office.

Time seemed to move in slow motion. The moment the figure's fingers released their hold on the device, they backed away from the window, running across the roof and out of sight.

The object fell through the air, spinning slowly, the trails of wires whipping at invisible assailants.

And finally, Eric saw the device eventually hit the ground, even crunching a little under the stress. It beeped for a slight second.

There was a deafening bang and a blinding flash.

And then there was nothing.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Bishop

Chapter 5: The Bishop

Naomi sat back in her chair, clicking the pen between her teeth. She was currently on the third draft and edit of the chapter, and getting ready for something to eat. She never normally had a big appetite, but found it was a good way to distract herself from the work.

Tossing the pieces of paper on the desk, she rose from her seat and strode over towards the kitchen, trying to decide on something to eat.

'Okay, fridge, fridge…' she muttered to herself, opening the object. However, she shut it again a moment later. 'Mail.'

She changed headings, moving over towards the front door. The building had the slight advantage of the mailbox in the lobby being broken for the last few months, so the postman was used to taking the lift up the inside of the building, before dropping off the letters and working his way down.

Just beside her front door was a small pile of letters, in the signature white envelopes.

'Alright, what have we got here, then…?' she asked the pile, even waiting for a reply from it before scooping them up. Quickly, relying on muscle memory, she shuffled the letters, before dealing them onto the coffee table.

Bill. Bill. Magazine. Bill. Agent.

Quickly, she dispatched of the other mail, focusing on the 'agent' letter. She dug her fingernail into the top edge and sliced the envelope open. A menagerie of papers and cuttings fell out of the letter and onto the table.

Ever since the first reviews and adverts of her book were published in her local, her agent had made a habit of sending every single mention of it they could summon to Naomi.

It was just a typical advert for it, back in circulation; an excerpt from the book column from the Tribute; some poncy magazine reviewing local novels and a write-in from the Metro.

Naomi dropped the collection onto the table, to read through it after lunch.

The apartment seemed to be getting emptier and emptier, but it was most likely just her imagination. The bookshelf, once fully stocked all of her favourite reads, from Wells to Bradbury to Tolkien to Ellison. But, as the years had gone on, and the writing process had taken its toll, Naomi found that the books were rapidly vanishing. Now, it was almost completely empty, with only a couple copies of _Mark of the Bishop_ , by Naomi Redfern littering the top shelf.

The book, a murder mystery set in 1920s Ipswich, had been planned for years, ever since she was in the process of choosing a university, but the unemployment brought about after her graduation had been the catalyst towards writing it. It had taken her a few months to finish, but by the time it was completed, she'd managed to find an agent interested in publishing it.

It had had an ignominious release, with only a handful of bookstores stocking it and even less having any joy selling it. Even to this day, the shelves had first editions in the bargain bins and discounted areas.

But Naomi tried to ignore that. The sales brought just enough to keep her afloat – the apartment was inherited from her parents, so she could spare the rent money from her income.

But the money was grinding to a halt, just when it was most needed.

She'd made her way back to the fridge and currently sorting through the items for something pre-sell by date, which eliminated most of the items.

There was a knock at the door. Naomi stood up with a jolt, knocking her head on the shelf in the fridge. She rubbed the base of her skull, hoping to alleviate some of the throbbing, as she walked over to the door.

As she grabbed the door handle, she froze. People don't knock at the door. When they want to come in, they would have to buzz the intercom or use a key. If they had a key, they must live here – so what did they want to talk to her for?

Tentatively, Naomi slid the chain across the door, then unlocked it.

'Who is it?' she asked, getting as close to the door as she could.

'Dr Smith!' the voice replied through the door, an energetic, Scottish burr. 'I'd like to talk about your book!'

Naomi considered it for a second, before opening the door as far as the chain would allow it.

The man, about Naomi's height and dressed in a white suit, knitted pullover and crumpled white hat, poked his head through the door. After trying – and failing – to walk through the door for a few moments, he eventually surrendered and looked to Naomi for pity.

'I can't seem to get in…'

'That's because it's bolted.' Naomi replied. 'Look, _Dr Smith_ , if you're going to come in, then I'll have to see some ID first.'

'Ah! Yes!' the man said, backing away from the door. It shut behind him.

Naomi waited for a few seconds, listening to the man's distracted mumblings through the door.

'Er…' it said through the door. 'Could you just hold these for a second, please?'

Without a reply, the letterbox clicked open. Naomi stared in bewilderment as a collection of items passed through the slot – a yo-yo, a carrot, a paperback, a slingshot. Each of the items fell to the floor with a clatter, forming a small pile by the door.

'Ah-hah!' the voice said, and the stream of objects stopped. 'This is my card, I think you'll find.'

To prove his point, a slim business card was passed through the letterbox, which Naomi plucked away like a shot. In large, cursive writing, it said:

DOCTOR JOHN SMITH, LITERARY CRITIC, A.C.E.

Naomi frowned, as she read the card. Normally, if someone professional wanted to talk about the book, they'd contact her agent first. But it was publicity, and any publicity was good, right?

'Alright.' she sighed, as she unbolted the door. 'Come on.'

The door swung open, and Dr Smith pottered inside the apartment. As the door shut behind him, he squatted down, collecting his items from the floor and stuffing them back into his pockets.

'So, how did you find my address?' Naomi asked, walking back into the kitchen. 'More importantly, how did you get in?'

'You were in the Yellow Pages…' Dr Smith replied nonchalantly, investigating the bookshelf.

'I use a pen-name.'

'So do I.' Dr Smith countered. 'That's how you learn the tricks.'

'Okay, and how did you get inside the building?'

'A rudimentary diversion of the power units.'

'Right. So you broke in?'

'In not so many words, yes.'

Naomi actually gave a laugh to the odd little man.

'Alright, then,' she said. 'Did you like my book?'

'Yes…' he replied, plucking one of the copies from the bookshelf. As Naomi finishing making her cup of tea, he flicked through the pages quickly, before replacing it back on the shelf and turning to face her. 'But the beginning was padded, the denouement rushed, the character development was sloppy and the cover was the wrong shade of blue.'

Naomi simply stared at him in bemusement, her head cocked to the side.

'One lump or two?'

'Three. Now, this book…' he said, sitting down on the coffee table. 'How did it come about?'

'Er…' Naomi replied uncertainly, depositing the sugar into the mug. 'Just reading a lot, I suppose. Agatha Christie, stuff like that.'

'And any book in particular?'

'I, er…I don't think so. Just a general sort of…style.'

'How did you feel, when you got your first review?'

'Well, I was, erm…I was…'

'Alright, how did you feel when you finished the book?'

'I, I can't-'

'When it was published, when you got a copy, when the agent said 'yes'?!' Dr Smith fired, standing up to walk over to her.

'I can't remember!' Naomi shouted back, her face twisted with frustration and worry. Then it sank in: 'Why can't I remember?'

Dr Smith froze for a second, then his face morphed, shedding the fierceness and growing softer, warmer. He broke a smile.

'Not so omnipotent, it would seem…' he muttered to himself, letting slip a small laugh.

'What?'

'I'm the Doctor.' He said, doffing his hat at Naomi. 'Nice to meet you.'

'Yes. The Doctor. Doctor John Smith.' Naomi replied simply, nodding her head with every word.

'Like I said…a pen-name.'

'Sorry, no, confused now. Long day.'

'Ah, working on the sequel?'

'Spinoff. Are you actually a Doctor?'

'Yes.'

'Right. Doctor…John Smith?'

'No.'

'Okay. Good. So, er…what's your _real_ name?'

'Just the Doctor.'

'Just the Doctor.' Naomi echoed. 'That's not suspicious at all, is it?'

'I'm here to help. With the memory loss.' The Doctor told her, taking a sip from the cup of tea. 'Your agent told me it seemed to be happening more frequently, that they were worried about you.'

'I've had frequent memory loss?'

'You tell me.'

'Well, I can't remember if I've forgotten anything.'

'There you are then.'

'So what are we going to do about it?' Naomi asked, sitting herself down on the armchair.

'I was thinking a short-range tactile parapsychological experiment.'

'Psychological? Like…therapy?'

' _Para_ psychological.'

'…You're going to put me in a wheelchair?'

'It's a rather limited form of telepathy, only available to certain individuals.'

'Telepathy? You're going to read my mind?'

'In a manner of speaking, yes. But it's less like _reading_ a mind, and more like glancing at it. Just to see how everything's ticking over.'

'Will it hurt?'

'Depends on what you're thinking about.' The Doctor muttered, raising his hands into the air and giving then a magician-like flourish. 'Make sure that you're sitting comfortably. This could take a while.'

He dug around in his pocket for a moment, before producing his reward. The yo-yo. Naomi watched as he inserted his finger into the loop, and released the wooden spool. It trailed downwards, leaving a line of white string in the air behind it, before reaching the end of the trail. It span in the air, as the Doctor raised it up and positioned it directly in front of Naomi's face.

'Sorry about this.' He said sheepishly. 'Couldn't find a watch. Now, watch the yo-yo, here…watch it rocking, back and forth, back and forth…'

As he said this, he started to swing the yo-yo from side to side, letting it hang from his finger like a pendulum.

Naomi found herself entranced by the toy, the bright colours instantly drawing her view. Its arc began to decrease slightly, the yo-yo slowing down a little.

'That's it, just focus on the colours…' she heard the Doctor say, his voice seeming to come from everywhere in the room and nowhere at the same time, echoing around the inside of her head.

She started to blink, just a little, but then much more frequently, her eyelids opening and closing like the shutter on a camera. Her head started to sway, feeling like it was three times its normal weight and her neck was suddenly as thin as a pencil.

As the red, yellow and blue of the yo-yo started to blur into one, Naomi urged herself to stay awake, avoid falling asleep in front of this strange man.

'From five, four…'

Her eyelids drooped shut, clamping out the rest of the world.

'Three…'

Her limbs lost all sign of life, her hand sliding off of the arm on the chair and falling to rest beside her.

'Two…'

Her head started to rock back and forth, as she lost any semblance of energy.

'One…'

Her ears meshed all sound into one long garble, with no want to communicate any longer.

'Now.'

The Doctor clicked his fingers once. She was out cold.

She was swirling, rushing through the air around her like a stick on a rapid river. Lights, sounds, things all rushed by her, none of them taking the time to sink in and leave an impression on her.

The world around her wasn't a colour – it was devoid of anything, black, white, grey, none of it was there, save for the flitting explosions that she passed. But was she passing them, or was she still and they moved passed her?

Naomi had the sneaking suspicion that if she were to look down, presuming that she could, then she wouldn't have a body to look at. It felt as if her body had been eaten away by acid, completely numb from tip to stern.

A light appeared in the distance, a brilliant speck of white that seemed to be so bright, it illuminated the entire space. It zoomed towards, growing larger and larger with every passing moment.

It moved up to her, spreading a field of white as far as she could see in every direction. Yet it still seemed to be approaching her, still a million miles away.

She thought of screaming for help, but the thought didn't register. The wonder clogged up any rational thought, cut off her of any familiarity or safety.

At last, the white light hit her, smacking into her like a brick wall and consuming her completely.

She was stood on a balcony.

No, hang on, it was _her_ balcony, from the apartment.

Everything seemed delirious, out-of-focus, hazy. Like she watching it happen through a bad film recording.

Naomi watched herself drop the torn shreds of a letter from the balcony, and let the wind scatter them around.

Then she looked up.

A plane was going overhead, roaring in its wake. But there was something else, something very important she could remember that was about to happen, like déjà vu in reverse.

There it was. A flash of green, in the night sky. It was bright, like a headlight shining down on her. She recoiled as the light flooded her eyes, totally blinding her.

Suddenly, she felt a jolt, like an electric shock, all over her body. It sprang her awake in a second, back in the armchair, in the apartment, with the Doctor in front of her.

As she regained her feelings, she noticed that she happened to be trembling. She also noticed that the Doctor had just had his fingertips pressed against the sides of her temple.

He looked at her almost in horror, the cheery smile eliminated by a grave, sombre expression.

'So it is them…' he mumbled, like he'd just been told his favourite pub was being demolished.

'Doctor, what was that?'

'Hmm? Oh, just a recent memory check.'

'Have I forgotten anything, then?'

'Not that I can see. This is bad, this is very bad!' he grumbled frantically, as he rose to a standing position and paced around the table.

'Why is it bad?'

'No, no, not that!' he snapped suddenly. 'The green flash, from the dream.'

'What does it mean? Does it mean I'm going to…meet a tall, dark stranger who'll alter my fortunes, or that I lack responsibility, or something?'

'No.' he replied solemnly. 'It means that unless we do something about it very quickly, we're all going to die…'


	6. Chapter 6 - Queen Takes Rook

Chapter 6: Queen Takes Rook

Mel rapped her fingers on the car window, looking around nervously. She didn't like being late as a matter of principle, even if she didn't know what she was actually going to be late for.

The crowd of journalists and paparazzi were still milling around the outside of the Centre, some pressing themselves against the rails, desperately begging for an interview with one of the security guards.

A large hole had been blown in the side of the Victorian building, where a bomb had gone off. Some of the brickwork was still crumbling away, which meant that the whole lot had been placed as 'out-of-bounds' by the local police.

Other than what the Doctor managed to gleam from the papers and the scant few words she'd managed to pick up from others nearby, Mel didn't know much about the Party.

For one, they were certainly controversial, with half of the paper decrying them and the other half worshiping them, which never makes for a good leader in Mel's book. Secondly, this wasn't the first time something like this had happened. The amount of security outside the Centre would rival that of Air Force One, and the press appeared to be reacting not with shock, but with exasperation.

Thirdly, they were wrong.

Mel could still remember the Doctor's reaction to seeing their name on the cover of the paper he'd found on a bench.

'That's not right…' he mumbled, examining every character, letter and word on the cover.

He explained on the way to the station that the Party was never a major player in British Politics this side of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and they most certainly were never in power at this time.

The Doctor rolled up the paper and shoved it in his pocket – in which it fell out of side, as if going down a chute – as he strode towards the train station.

'10.31 to Dibton, perfect!' the Doctor smiled, turning back towards Mel.

' 'Dibton?'

'Lovely little place, I'm sure.'

'Doctor, why are we going to Dibton?'

'Because that's where the Centre is, Mel.' the Doctor sighed, as if he was explaining the simplest of facts to a children. 'Something has changed the course of history vastly, like rewriting a tapestry that's already been made. It can never end well.'

'And this Party, that's at the heart of it all?'

'If not, then they're close.'

'Doctor, what about the TARDIS?'

'She's most likely gotten her way out of the danger. Timeslips, very nasty things for time capsules. I'm sure she'll make her way back when everything's righted itself.'

'I hope you're right.' Mel replied, as she started to walk away. However, she stopped, and returned to the Doctor for a second. 'Doctor?'

'Mel?'

'…Who's to say that this Party isn't a change for the better?'

'Mel…'

'I'm serious, Doctor! What if this government is replacing a worse one, or making this world better because of its existence?'

'That's not the point, Mel,' the Doctor sighed. 'History has to be allowed to run its course, no matter what the cost, or chaos is all that will be left. The tapestry can't be undone after it's sewn.'

'But this isn't history for me. To me, this is the future. Anything could happen between then and now.'

'Mel, look at me.' the Doctor said. Mel did so. 'Promise me you'll be careful. If something here has frightened the TARDIS away, then it could mean something very nasty is incoming. Please? Just promise?'

Mel laughed for a second, before looking back at the Doctor.

'Alright, I promise. I won't change anything.'

'Thank you, Mel.' the Doctor smiled.

And with that, Mel made her way over towards the platform and got on the train.

According to what the Doctor deduced, the Party would've only been established a little after Mel's time, so she couldn't offer an opinion on their validity (or lack thereof).

The train was jam-packed with people, almost all of them reporters, trying to get to the scene of the crime before anyone else managed to steal the story from them. Some were even starting to write the article on the train; Mel looked over one person's shoulder to see the words: 'PARTY CRASHERS' scrawled onto a notepad.

Whilst Mel was travelling towards Dibton, the Doctor was moving in the opposite direction, towards a block of flats in Whitehall. Apparently, he'd seen a book on the way, which had triggered his 'Time Lord Intuition'.

The Doctor had made a quick stop at the bank, withdrawing a slight dent from his untapped UNIT wages, then split the money fifty-fifty. Mel had to pay for train fare, whilst the Doctor needed to get a business card made.

Before they reached the Doctor's bank, Mel was half-tempted to ask about her own bank account. She had part of it in a local bank a few miles outside of Pease Pottage, but the majority of it was in a national, safely tucked away. In all honesty, she didn't want to know what it would reveal.

If it was empty, then she'd know that she came back to present day Earth after finishing her travels, and withdrew whatever money she had left.

If it was the same – adjusted for inflation, of course - she'd know that she never returned to Earth – for one reason or another.

As the train ground to a halt at Dibton Station, the doors slid open silently, and the stampede of visitors charged off of the train, Mel waited behind for a second, letting the flow of people move away. After a minute or so, the carriage was now clear, and Mel could easily make her way onto the platform and out of the station.

Her main priority as she got off of the train was deciding what drink she'd get from the café. Tea was always good, a favourite of hers, but the allure of waking up from the coffee beckoned to her as well. Then there was the treat of hot chocolate to factor into the equation as well…

'Ms Bush?' said a voice, cold and stern, to her right. Mel whipped around, a knee-jerk reaction to hearing the voice.

It came from a man, six feet tall and stick thin, with closely cropped brown hair and piercing brown eyes.

'Yes, that's me.' she said, nodding slightly. 'Who's asking?'

Two other men grabbed her from behind, each of them clasping their hands onto her arms and dragging her across the platform.

Mel started to shout out, yelling for help, but a mere few seconds later, she was thrown into a sleek black car and carted far away from the station.

The engine rumbled as the car sped up and down the country lanes, but the car itself didn't seem to move – you could balance a house of cards on the dashboard, and not even a single ace would lose its balance.

Across from Mel sat a similarly dressed men from the person she met at the station – cropped hair, black suit, pale skin, the works.

'I'm sorry about my colleague, Ms Bush.' he said, removing his reading glasses and rubbing his eyes. He seemed a little older, wiser than the first man, like he was used to cleaning up the latter's messes. 'He can be a little, er…enthusiastic, shall we say? Now, your boss Smith sent us the details about half an hour ago. Here's the details.' he added, passing over a card folder to Mel.

'I see…' Mel started, struggling for something to say.

'We have Mr Chambers in the panic room, which is living up to its name at the moment, I can tell you. We've managed to apprehend the main suspect – Mr Chambers recognised her, and she was at the scene of the incident at the time.'

Each of the words seemed to rush by in a non-stop flow of language, almost all of which evaded Mel. The main continued:

'She's cooped up in the Centre as well. Until we've finished with the interrogation, the bobbies are waiting to take her to prison. We're thinking secret trial and island for her, but the jury's still out.'

The car slowed down suddenly, only crawling ahead. Mel took a look at the front windshield, to find her bearings.

They were approaching a huge house, like the sort of manor house you'd visit on bank holidays, only it had hordes of people outside it, and a chunk of the building taken away on one side. Mel gaped at the spectacle.

'Jones, Cartwright, Bush, clearance 550-444-32A.' the man said through the window to the guard outside the car. As the guard checked the code mentally, she walked over towards the barrier and raised it, permitting the car entry.

The car stopped a few feet away from the door at the side of the house, with a wall of security guards either side. One of the guards opened the car door and Mel was ushered through the ornate, weathered wooden door.

The moment they entered the Centre, the door was slammed shut behind them and bolted with half a dozen thick metal locks, each closing with a heavy clunk. Another man ran up to Mel and half-dragged, half-guided her down the corridors, amongst hundreds of people all dressed in suits, all of them running about in a mad panic.

At last, they reached a corridor, and stopped. A row of guards went down both walls, each armed with a rather bulky pistol and none of them distracted by the spectacle to their side.

Mel looked into one room a few doors away from the guarded corridor. Its door was missing, but the frame was blocked with miles of police tape and 'do not cross' signs. Despite this, she could still glimpse inside.

Almost the entire room was black. A bookshelf lay to one side, with every one of the spines burnt and ruined. A desk sat in the middle of the room, and was now a large pile of ash. Shreds of paper, from of them still smouldering a little, floated in the air, carried by the strong wind getting into via the gaping hole in the wall.

Hanging on the wall away from the door was a banner, once beautiful crimson, but now most of it was eaten away by the flame, leaving only the black bird attached to the frame.

'Just a sec, ma'am…' one of the guides said, released Mel. He walked down the guarded corridor, opening the door a crack and poking his head inside, before shutting the door again and returning to Mel. 'Okay, it's safe. Let's go.'

The first man ahead of Mel, the second a few metres behind her. Clearly, they didn't want her making a run for it – not that she'd know where she was going, right in the middle of the intricate wooden web.

Mel approached the door at the end, and was instructed to stop. The first guard walked through, and held the door opened for Mel, before nodding quickly.

Tentatively and gently, Mel walked towards the door. As soon as she stepped through it, a blaring klaxon sounded, booming down the corridor. Mel ducked for a second, before regaining herself and standing up straight.

'Ma'am, have you got any keys, pens, stuff like that?' the guard asked, holding his hands. He noticed Mel's confused expression, and added: 'There's a metal detector in the doorframe. Please, anything metal.'

Mel dug around in her pockets, and produced a small, jingling felt bag, loaded with the money the Doctor had given her. Apart from that, her pockets were devoid of anything metallic. However, she felt around her neck, and pulled away the TARDIS key, which was hanging on a chain like a necklace.

She lowered the key and coins into the guard's outreached hand, and he walked over to the wall. Pressing against one of the many panels in the wall, it clicked open, revealing a safe embedded in the wall. The keypad beeped with each number that the man pressed, before sliding open, revealing the inside miniature vault.

The man emptied his hands into a small plastic bag inside the vault, before placing the goods amongst a few others inside. The safe and panel shut once again.

'Safety measures.' he said simply, as a way of explaining. 'Now, Mr Chambers is in the panic room.' he added, extending his hand towards the room.

Mel took it as a chance to take in the room. It was a library, bigger than the one in Pease Pottage by a good bit. Thousands of books lined hundreds of shelves, towering over Mel and around the outside of the room, as well as one up-standing shelves scattered neatly on the floor. A quartet of elegant marble pillars held up the room.

The man glared at Mel, impatiently waiting for her to move.

'Ma'am?!'

Mel shot back around, snapping back into the conversation. As he brandished his index finger at the room, she looked around in bewilderment, wondering if there was something invisible she'd missed upon her search.

The man exhaled loudly, the exasperation dripping off of his breath. He strode over to one side of the room, and hooked his fingers onto the spine of two books, about a metre away from each other. Smoothly, he tugged on the right one, the spine leaning out a few inches, before turning to the left one, which came out similarly. Finally, he pulled on the right one again, and the bookshelf clicked.

He stood back some paces as the bookshelf moved, rotating on one side, like the flipper on a pinball machine, only much, much slower.

After it stopped, he felt around the now exposed side of the door, finding a handle and started to pull. The shelf opened completely, revealing a hidden doorway just inside. The panic room.

He turned back to Mel, beckoning for her to follow him. She realised after a few seconds and half-ran across the room towards him, with the second man following behind her. When she got there, the man huffed once more, and stepped through the doorway.

By the time all three of them were through the door, the bookshelf had slid shut again, sealing with a click.

They were stood in a lift, a cube of six by six by six feet. A handful of bulbs implanted in the walls and roof provided a bit of light, but not enough to make the room feel even remotely safe. A lever was at one side, and a ladder on the opposite wall. Mel was particularly interested in the latter, and how the roof and floors around it had small hatches built into them.

'In case of emergency.' the man said, following her gaze.

'A way into the panic room?'

'Or a way out.' the second man grunted, as he pulled on the lever and released it. The lift started to lurch, lowering itself down the shaft. The ladder moved upwards, each rung passing through the slit in the floor and exiting through the slit in the roof. Not the safest lift in the world, thought Mel.

103 rungs later, the lift slammed to a halt. The door moved open, and the pair of guards ushered Mel out of the lift again.

'So this is the panic room?' Mel asked, taking in the environment. It was quite large, brightly lit thanks to ancient lamps hanging from the roof. Cream bricks lined every wall, and several crates were piled up to one side, presumably loaded with long-lasting food and supplies they might've needed.

'No.' the first guard muttered. 'This is the butcher's.'

On a chair, his head in his hands and streams of sweat running down his forehead was a man in a black suit, with neatly trimmed black hair and an expensive watch manacled to his wrist.

'You must be Ms Bush.' he said grimly, without looking up. 'Nice to meet you.'

Shivering slightly, he raised his head from his hands, to take in his visitor.

'Have the, er…have the _visitors_ gone away yet?'

'No, sir.' one of the guards said, from behind Mel. 'We've estimated 3,500.'

'35 hundred!' repeated the man in the suit, with more than a whiff of despair. 'And that's just the ones who could get here!'

'I'm sure they'll get over it soon enough,.' said a woman stood at the back, her arms crossed behind her back. 'They always do.'

A man stood beside her, who looked even younger than Mel, added:

'Yes, that's right, isn't it, Prime Minister?'

Mel's eyes widened. 'Prime…Minister?' she asked in shock and disbelief, feeling the wind being kicked out of her.

'Yes?' the woman asked, leaning slightly towards Mel. 'This is Eric Chambers, the Prime Minister.'

'Does anyone else find it a bit worrying that she doesn't know?' the man asked, a wry smile breaking out on his face.

'That's enough, Oliver.' the Prime Minister, Eric, said, looking back over his shoulder to face him. 'I'm sure Ms Bush will more than live up to her reputation.'

'Depends the reputation, really.' Oliver muttered, thankfully under his voice.

'You can call me Mel, if you like.' Mel said, smiling a little. 'If it'll help relax you, I mean.'

'The only thing that's gonna calm me down,' Eric said 'Is getting rid of that crowd, once and for all. How are you supposed to run a country when you can't even leave the building?!'

'Our main goal today,' the woman interjected 'is making sure that we take care of the bomb threat and track down any assailants that might still be out there.'

'And getting answers out of the one we already have.' Oliver said.

Mel took all this in, placing the card folder from the car on the table beside her.

'So what are we doing?' she asked, looking at the woman.

'You tell us.' the woman replied. 'That's why you're here.'

'I think we should give Mel a couple of minutes,' Eric said, standing up and stretching his legs. 'Give her a chance to mull it all over. I mean, we're hardly going anywhere in a rush, are we?'

'I think that would work out best, yes.' Mel said, smiling a small smile of relief.

'Your boss, Smith.' Oliver asked, pulling out a notepad. 'Where's he?'

'Talking to a writer.' Mel replied in a second, before silently cursing herself.

'A writer?!' the woman asked, cocking her head. 'A head of national security, talking to _a writer_?!'

'He couldn't say what it was about,' Mel bluffed. 'Official Secrets Act, he said.'

The woman considered this for a second, before slowly nodding her head in acceptance.

'Like that book a few years ago, Who Killed Kennedy?'

'Yes, like that!' Mel agreed, even though she'd never heard of it in her life.

'Alright, then. Did he say which writer?'

Mel summoned the book cover from her memory:

'Naomi Redfern. She wrote _Mark of the Bishop_.'

'I read that on holiday a few weeks ago.' Oliver said. 'It was awful. Wanted to toss it into the pool.'

'Yes, thank you, Oliver.' Eric snapped. 'Can we get her address, phone number, please?' he asked the guard nearest to him, who nodded and walked towards a computer terminal in one wall. 'If nothing else, we can at least him know that you made it here safely.'

'Yes, I suppose so.' Mel agreed. Outwardly, she managed to maintain a façade of confidence, the feeling that she knew what exactly she was doing. Inwardly, however, she was shaking like an electrocuted leaf.

'We've got it.' the guard stood at the computer said, jotting down a phone number onto a scrap of paper. Next, he picked up the phone, and dialled the number quickly.

Mel, almost praying, urged the Doctor to answer the phone, to provide any help. Even if he told them something as plain as 'Don't put the milk in before the teabag', then it'd help alleviate her nerves at all.

The phone crackled as the other end was picked up.

'Hello?' answered the voice at the other, a woman's voice, shaky and nervous. 'Who is this?'

'Is this Naomi Redfern?' the guard asked bluntly.

'Yes?'

'Is a man called Smith there?'

'Oh. I'm…I'm sorry.' the woman said, her voice quivering. 'I suppose you don't know.'

'What's wrong?' Mel asked, feeling the shiver of worry running up and down her spine.

'It all happened so suddenly…there was nothing I could do…this man, Smith. He's…he's dead.'


	7. Chapter 7 - The Black Pieces

Chapter 7: The Black Pieces

Ellis sat back in the chair, kicking his feet up and resting them on the desk before him. He was careful to avoid the cup of tea in front of him – he was down his last few mugs, and a trip to IKEA was the last thing he wanted.

In the next room, the photographs were developing, in a homemade kit cobbled together from bits and pieces gathered over the years. After a fair few mishaps at the shop where the workers had stolen the pictures and cashed in themselves, he'd learned to be quite a bit more diligent with his prize.

They'd take a while to develop, but he wasn't in much of a rush. He'd phoned his editor, telling him of the pictures, and the deal was made, quite aptly as his clock struck midnight.

It was now eight o'clock in the morning. Ellis had caught his share of sleep, a worthy four hours, before waking up and starting on the photographs. As the preliminary deadline was removed, with it went the temptation to rush the pictures and run the risk of ruining them.

He hadn't dropped beneath 65 miles per hour the whole journey home, even when a dog shot out in front of him. The trip was completed in record time, but he probably flagged a few dozen speeding tickets on the way. But that didn't matter. He'd quite happily commit treason for the right photo.

Ellis said up, downing the last few mouthfuls of the now lukewarm tea and returning to the photographs.

Across the country, something was moving.

It hovered on the ground, passing through trees, walls, cars, even people that it didn't concern. It only moved slowly, wanting to reserve the energy.

The previous night had cost it most of its energy supply, but it still had more than enough to survive until it feed once more.

Four orbs glowed within it, considerably smaller than they were before. They swelled and shrank, losing size millimetres at a time with each cycle.

Everyone it passed ignored it, carrying on with their lives, lost in their own thoughts. Even if they had seen the thing passing by, it wouldn't have made any impact on their memories.

It was projecting a memory-lapse field, one of the perks of evolution granted upon it. It was one of the causes for the drain on the energy, but it wanted to avoid attention if at all possible.

And so, that meant that it unfortunately couldn't feed on the hundreds of thousands of prey it passed on its mission.

Its limbs carried across country and city, in a perfectly straight line. It had travelled through the night, dawn and day. It was coming.

'Look, I'm on it now!' Ellis said to the phone, which was pressed against his ear. As he spoke, crumbs of toast soared out of his mouth and scattered themselves onto the counter in front of him.

The whole kitchen was bathed in a red glow, thanks to the bulb used to develop the photographs. Red oven, red toaster, red table, red Ellis. It was all very Communist.

'I have got a deadline, you know!' the editor replied over the phone, miles away in his office. 'If we want it to go to press tomorrow, then I need the photos ASAP. Anyone else could have them by the day after them.'

'Yes, yes, I know!'

'Don't think this is going to save your job, Ellis. You're still on thin ice.'

'Alright, I-'

' _Very_ thin ice. Call me when you're finished.'

And with that, the phone crackled into death. Ellis grunted, as he tossed the phone onto the counter in frustration. Shoving the last of the toast into his mouth, he rubbed his face, before tending to the photographs.

He still had the option of taking the photos to another paper, but that meant he'd lose his 'job' at his current paper, to risk getting one at a new one. At least if he stayed, he could find himself a bit more breathing space.

He slipped on the rubber gloves and removed the photographs from the fluid, hanging all four of them up on the line with washing pegs. The excess fluid dripping off of the photos, landing on buckets and pots he'd placed strategically around the kitchen.

As the last of the clips was put into place, he snapped off the rubber gloves and threw them onto the table, before exiting the kitchen.

The light of the living room brought him back into reality, dismissing all red from sight. After the last while being spent under an artificial glow, it was nice to have some natural light back.

He collapsed onto the sofa, stretching his legs out and clicking the button the TV remote. It came to life after a second or so, in the middle of news broadcast. Something about a bomb going off somewhere, near a politician…something political.

Bored already, he cracked open the tin of coke he'd brought in with him and took a swig, before flipping channels. The screen blinked for a second, before turning into a trashy gameshow. He hesitated for a second, listening to the first question.

'So here's your starter: Which actor starred in the 1989 James Bond film _The Living Daylights_?'

'Timothy Dalton.' Ellis said, alongside the contestant.

'No, I'm sorry, it was Rowan Atkinson.' the host said, as a red cross filled the screen in the background.

Ellis frowned, before changing the channel. It was a rubbish programme, it would seem.

He searched all the other channels as well, amongst the rubbish of morning chat shows and news broadcasts. A sitcom from twenty odd years ago. Flip. Teleshopping. Flip. A period drama about the 1890s, which is when it seemed to be made – hold on, seemed to be a good bit…no, it wasn't. Flip.

At last, he managed to make his choice: a documentary, about the creation of the Labour party. It wasn't that interesting, to be honest, but he didn't want to leave the house, and more importantly, the photographs, alone.

As pictures of Clement Attlee and Ramsay MacDonald filled his television, Ellis found himself dozing off, but he managed to urge himself to stay awake.

It had managed to leave the fields behind it, and was now in the heart of the city. Prey flooded around it like a net, threatening to ensnare it, but it felt no fear. It probably couldn't, even if it wanted to.

The red orbs were minuscule, only an inch or so. They continued to throb regularly, but the cycle took ever so slightly longer, as if it were powering down.

It would have to feed. There was nothing else it could do, or it would never reach its destination.

In an ally, a few miles away, a woman was smoking a cigarette, the fire door next to her held open by a paint tin. She sucked on the cigarette and exhaled the grey cloud of smoke in to the morning air.

'Nora!' a voice shouted from inside. 'Are you actually working today or what?!'

'Coming…!' the woman shouted back, dropping the cigarette onto the floor and stamping it out with her foot.

As she turned towards the door, she felt something. A burning, across her body. At first, she thought she'd forgotten to completely extinguish the cigarette, or gotten some ash on her, but she couldn't see anything.

Then she dropped to the ground.

She tried to scream out in pain, but the breath was lost from her lungs. Her internal organs all shifted and melded to become a single mound of flesh, and her bones cracked and cricked under the stress.

Behind her stood a creature, watching her with eyes that weren't there. Four red orbs inside it focused on the woman, steadily growing larger and larger.

Nora gave one last attempt at a scream, before clutching onto the paint tin. She tried to pull herself inside, hope one of her co-workers would see her, but it was no good. All the strength had fled from her limbs.

The red orbs flashed, and Nora disappeared in a flash of blood and smoke. The paint tin fell onto the floor and the door slammed shut.

Inside the building, the voice walked towards the door, with a fresh rage. Late for work is one thing, but throwing a strop about it is quite another.

He opened the fire door and looked out into the alley. It was empty. The creature watched him, deciding upon whether or not to strike. But it decided against it. It didn't need to feed, nor did it want to raise any more attention than was necessary.

The worker, now more confused than annoyed, shut the fire door, returning to his work, whilst the creature, now with five full orbs in its stomach, carried on its mission, ready to complete it.

The red kettle whistled shrilly, as the red Ellis raised it and poured red water into the red mug. He mixed the red teabag and dumped it in the red bin, before adding the red milk.

To be honest, he was starting to get a little sick of all the red.

Breathing gently on the tea to cool it down, he checked the photos.

He almost dropped the mug in shock.

Everything was there, all in focus. Sir Fisher was by the window, the house was all in place and the foliage around the scene was as green as it was on the night.

But the thing was missing.

A blank space was where the creature had once been. Ellis searched the photos, every single one of them, but they were all missing the something.

Ellis clapped his hands to his forehead, groaning to himself. This wasn't possible. The wall where the thing should be was just as it was before, the doorframe continuing and finishing as it would.

As Ellis took a coping gulp from the mug, he decided what to do.

Take the photos to the editor, and hope his reputation would defend the truth. He'd probably be laughed out of the office for claiming something like this, that the one important thing from the photos had just vanished, but he didn't have a choice. He figured he'd at least have the benefit of doubt if he took this route – why would he make up such a ridiculous lie?

He waited for the photos to dry, then unpegged them and stuck them in the folder, before ramming the folder into his messenger bag.

Ellis scooped his keys up off the counter and downed the last of the tea, the liquid burning this throat slightly, before he headed out of the door. If he was lucky, he'd still be able to catch the next bus into town.

Pulling on the bag, he walked towards the front door and opened it. The creature greeted him.

Ellis gasped for a second in shock, before slamming the door and backing away. His breathing was ragged, panic-stricken. Quickly, he threw off the messenger bag and left it on the sofa.

He watched as the familiar green glow appeared around the door, growing stronger and stronger. In instinct, he moved towards the opposite wall. Five red orbs phased through the door, as well as a forest of limbs, picking at the carpet beneath them without leaving a mark.

Ellis turned and ran through the door, heading into the kitchen. The creature headed towards him, quicker than it was the previous night.

He slammed the door shut, still consumed by the red glow of the bulb. It began to flicker, like a power cut was about to start. Ellis grabbed the chair from the table and went to press it against the door, slot it underneath the knob.

The green mist appeared once more. Ellis quickly recoiled his hand, just avoiding touching it, before running back again. The chair clattered to the floor.

Ellis grabbed the nearest leg of the chair and pulled it back, pressing himself against the kitchen counter. As the mist solidified and reformed back into the creature, Ellis chucked the chair at it, praying to do any damage.

It passed through the creature and into the door, denting the centre panel and snapping the chair into three.

The creature moved towards Ellis, who ran around the table, like electron around an atom. Luckily, he had the advantage of speed.

Not so luckily, the creature had the advantage of intangibility. It moved through the table, the five orbs growing intensely.

Ellis ran back through the door, trying to exit the flat. But as he stopped to move the chair, he had lost. The creature had him.

He dropped to the floor, convulsing and squelching. His hands curved into fists and flexed outwards again, his legs reached outwards to the point of almost breaking. His eyes were screwed shut and his teeth gritted.

Then a second later, it was over. Ellis' body, drowning the ocean of red, vanished in a flash, leaving a trail of nothing behind.

The red bulb smashed, plunging the room into darkness.

Sir Fisher stared out of the window, tapping his finger on the glass. It should be back by now, unless it had run into any problems.

He checked his watch – two minutes past noon. As the second hand ticked by, he stared at it, taking a few deep breaths to try and steady himself.

He looked back up at the glass, and leaped a foot in the air when he saw the reflection of the creature.

'You made it back, then?' he asked, turning around.

' _Yes_.'

'Took your time.'

' _It was necessary_.' came the response. Sir Fisher looked down, glancing at the creature, taking the time to note it now had six orbs, rather than the five it should.

'Took the time to have a snack, I presume?'

' _It was necessary_.' repeated the creature.

'So the photographer from last night, you…got him?'

' _He is destroyed_.'

'Right. What about the others?'

' _They are next_.'

'I see. One down, two to go, is it? Look, do we have to kill them? One death I can cope with, especially his death, but two is pushing it.'

' _They know. They must be destroyed._ '

Sir Fisher mopped his brow, before sighing.

'Alright, then. Two to go.'


	8. Chapter 8 - Check

Chapter 8: Check

Sir Fisher sat in his study, teaspoon in hand. He rotated it around the china cup, before tapping it on the side and placing it on the saucer. Gingerly, he took a sip, before lowering it again.

In ten minutes, it'd be over. He could finally relax. Then again, in ten minutes, anything could happen. His whole world could come crashing down in clouds of smoke and ash.

He was trying not to think about that.

Apart from him, the only other person in the house was Alistair, his butler – or helper, as he liked to say. He often didn't feel as if the money suited him, like he didn't belong in this life. Like he was a square peg in a round hole.

Thus, he liked to pretend, even if only to himself, that the money didn't exist. He still prepared his own meals, cleaned the house as much as he could and commuted to work like a normal man.

But he couldn't deny that the money had come in handy, particularly in the dark days. It helped that he knew he could take as many sick days as he wanted, or as many days off as he felt he needed. He could afford to retire right this second, so he had nothing to lose.

He'd managed to get the addresses he needed from the contacts he'd accumulated over the years. When you lived with the threats and worries he did, it was just a little handy to know you could always call upon a friend in the military, or government, or media to help you out.

Or a friend in an extra-terrestrial species.

Mel placed the pen onto the paper, having finished writing for the second.

'Is this right?' she asked the guard stood beside. In response, he looked at the pad, before nodding to her. 'Good.' she said, before scrunching the paper up into a ball and tossing into the bin.

'Won't you need that?' Eric asked.

'I'll remember.'

'If you don't mind me saying…' Oliver started 'You seem oddly…comfortable with your boss dying on you.'

'Oh, the Doc – Smith's quite good at getting himself out of sticky situations.' Mel replied, letting the lie flow through her lips. 'Trust me, it's not the first time I've heard news of his death.'

'Alright…' Oliver said, not exactly hiding his disbelief.

'Now,' Mel began 'What we need to do is find a way out of the area. If we can get the Prime Minister away from here, we can keep him safe.'

'I'm afraid that's not possible.' the woman said, crossing her hands behind her back again. 'Mr Chambers has to remain with the Centre in order to access the information required.'

'Not to mention the wall of spectators he'd have to get past.' Oliver added. 'He's probably four times as safe in here as he would be out there. At least in here, they can't Molotov him.'

'Thank you for that…' Eric muttered.

'Look, just tell me what you're doing!'

Naomi was stood in front of the door, her arms crossed. She watched the Doctor furiously packing his things into his pockets, finishing by putting the pack of tarot cards under his hat.

'I've got to go somewhere, warn them!' he said, winding the string around the yo-yo and popping it in his pocket.

'Warn them about what?'

'You wouldn't understand.'

'Doctor, you just invaded my mind, then freaked out. So I'm involved. Tell me.'

The Doctor muttered something under his breath in response. As he went to grab the last item, a wooden train whistle, Naomi got there first, and plucked it away from him.

She held it up high, away from the Doctor.

'Tell me, or it's going over the balcony.' she warned, slowly moving around the apartment. The Doctor followed her, staying a few metres away the whole time. When Naomi reached the balcony, she extended her hand over the edge.

'Naomi, you wouldn't-'

'Oh, oh, this is... _so_ slippery…' she teased, even removing a finger from the whistle.

'There are creatures, called the X.'

'The X?'

'That's not their real name. They might not even _have_ a name, but nobody has ever found out. Because anyone who gets close to them are killed, or have their memory wiped. Hence 'X'.

Naomi paused.

'Go on?'

'One of the very few things that is known about them is that they worship chaos. Anything that threatens to bring order is to them their mortal enemy, and they'll stop at nothing to capture or destroy them.'

'And your friend, you think they might be going to kill her?'

'I don't doubt it. I knew it was _something_ omnipotent, to change history on this sort of scale, but I didn't…'

The Doctor paused, looking at the city around them for a second.

'You might get a phone call from her, or someone, asking about me.' he added sullenly. 'Just tell them I'm on my way and will go as quick as I can.'

Naomi nodded slowly.

'Alright. I get it.' she said in defeat, stepping away from the edge. She went to toss the whistle to the Doctor – but it wasn't there.

As she looked over, the Doctor produced it from his pocket, grinning.

'How did you…?' she asked, before giving up.

'As soon as I'm finished, I'll come back here and get you.'

'I'll come now, I've not got anything planned-'

'I need to move quickly. We might not have long.'

'Alright. Anything I should do?'

'Er…' the Doctor said, patting his pockets down. 'No. Good luck.'

He went to leave, but stopped himself suddenly. Throwing out his arm, he held back Naomi as well. She was confused for a second…until she looked at the door.

'Oh. Not good?'

'No. Not good.'

A green mist was forming around it.

'Sir' shouted one of the guards, as he exited the lift shaft. 'I've just gotten word from topside.'

'Well, what is it?!'

'She's finally spoken.'

'Who?' Mel asked.

'The bomber.' the guard replied 'We've finally gotten an answer.'

' _What did she say_?!' Eric punctuated, rising from his chair.

'That there's a mole.'

'Well, we knew that! How else would she be able to find her way around the Centre?'

'No, sir. You don't understand. There's a mole…in here.'

They all froze for a second, too scared to move – until Mel realised something. It wasn't the guard who had just spoken – it had been Oliver.

'You!' she said, pointing at him. The others turned, unwilling to add anything.

'Yep. Sorry.' he said, the trace of a laugh escaping his lips. 'Lot easier than you'd think, becoming a government mole. Of course, I was a student to begin with, so the internship story held up pretty well. Then there was all the sucking-up and boot-licking…I'll be honest, I thought you wouldn't clocked it from day one.'

'Oliver? You're the mole?!'

'God, leader like that, no wonder the country's in turmoil.'

'So the woman who let off the bomb,' Mel inquired 'Was your team-mate? Your friend? And you deliberately let her get captured?'

'Her fault for getting caught.' Oliver shrugged. 'Besides, I have to maintain my cover.'

'Which was very well done, if I might say.' the woman said. 'I mean, none of us will ever find out.'

'Yeah, see, it's not so much of a failed cover, more of a false sense of security.'

A chill ran through the room.

'What?' Mel asked.

'Because whilst you're all down here, distracted by me, everything will be going to hell in a handbasket upstairs.'

As if on cue, a shower of sparks fell from the lift-shaft, hissing in the air.

'Oh, and good luck trying to get up the lift now.' Oliver said. 'It's busted, and the guards at the top'll keep it that way.'

'Guards?'

'Couple of friends from the Union. Trained in the army, wanted to help out. Isn't that right, fellas?' he asked the guards at the back. Together, the two guards raised their weapons, aimed at Eric, the woman and Mel.

'So, quick question.' Eric started 'Was anyone in this Party actually a member, or is everyone a double agent?

'I'm not.' the woman replied, raising her hand.

'Thank you.'

'You see, Mr Prime Minister, I had a friend. He wanted to study medicine, to become a doctor, like thousands of people. Not unlike thousands of people, he wasn't from here. He moved into this country to study at a university. Eventually, he got his qualifications and got to work as a nurse. But a couple of years ago, something happened. Some politicians decided that they didn't want him in this country. Maybe he was working too hard, or maybe he helped too many people. It didn't matter. No matter how much he begged to stay, he was kicked out of this country, and his job, and his life.'

'Listen, I'm sorry, I am, but-'

'But nothing. You decided that his race was more important than his ability, along with thousands of other innocent people. I'm just cutting off the head of the fish to stop the rest rotting.'

'Oliver, please, just listen-'

'Too late. Sorry about you lot,' he said to Mel and the woman. 'Can't do anything for you. No witnesses.'

Oliver backed into the lift shaft, the two guards following him.

'Oliver, whatever you're going to do, just think about it.' the woman said, backing away from the lift-shaft.

'I have thought about it. Which is how I know that there is…2 minutes, 31 seconds to get clear of the library and outside, before it all blows.'

He let off a hollow laugh.

'I suppose it'll get rid of the crowds for you, eh, Mr Chambers?'

As Oliver laughed to himself, the doors of the lift shaft slid up, and the grinding of the ancient lift started.

'Guess it wasn't broken, then.' Eric muttered. 'Just a bluff.'

'So there's a bomb?' Mel asked, blanched with fear.

'Looks like.' replied the woman, running over to the doors of the lift. 'It's sealed tight. No way we're getting in there in a hurry.'

The Doctor slowly crept towards the door, umbrella outreaching from his hand.

'What are you doing?' hissed Naomi.

'Just testing a theory…' he murmured, dipping the end of the umbrella into the green mist. Nothing changed – it was as if the mist wasn't there, just a projection on a screen.

'Well, be careful!'

'It's perfectly safe, until the X solidifies.' the Doctor replied, smiling a little.

'I hope you know what you're doing.'

'So do I.'

The Doctor turned his attention back to the door, and leapt backwards. The creature was almost entirely through.

'I don't suppose there's another way out of here?' he asked Naomi, both of them now stood on the balcony.

'Fire escape.'

'Where is it?'

'Through that door.' she said, pointing to the front door.

'Ah.'

'Yep. Plan?'

'Lure it away from the door? It can pass through any solid object. We'd have to be quick.'

'So not a plan, then?'

'Unfortunately, no.'

The Doctor looked around in a growing state of panic, before looking at the umbrella for a second.

'Perhaps a small plan?'

'Which is?'

'We could exit the building via the apartment beneath us.'

'Sorry, I forgot to install the emergency fire-station pole!'

'If we hang this,' he brandished towards the umbrella 'from the balcony, then we could swing onto the balcony beneath.'

'You've got to be kidding me! It's 20 floor down! If we slip, we die!'

'Stay in here, we die.'

The creature was now fully through the door, and made its way towards the balcony, with its six red orbs glowing brightly.

'You first.' Naomi muttered. The Doctor nodded, before hooking his umbrella onto the side of the balcony. Clutching onto the end, he slowly stood up onto the balcony, with both of his feet perched on the edge.

'Be careful!'

'I am trying!'

The creature was now only a few metres away from the balcony. It seemed to be ignoring Naomi, instead focusing on the Doctor.

His feet slipped, and he began to cry out.

'Doctor!' Naomi called out, as he started to tumble.

'I think this is it…' the woman said, as she deposited a small attaché case onto the table. She opened it, revealing a mess of wires inside. Mel had never seen a bomb before, but she'd hazard a guess that this was one.

'What do we do?' Eric asked, mopping his brow. 'Apart from defuse it?'

The woman sifted amongst the parts, before pulling out a timer, like the sort from a microwave. In bright red numbers, it read: 0.59. 58. 57…

'What do we do?!' repeated Eric, who found himself backing away from the bomb a little.

'Just calm down…' Mel said, emphasising her point with her hands.

51\. 50. 49. 48.

'I can't find the safety wire…!' the woman shouted, desperately searching amongst the wires. In defeat, she looked up at Mel. 'I can't stop it.

43\. 42. 41. 40.

Naomi watched as the Doctor's feet flew off of the balcony, and went soaring into the air. For a few glorious seconds, he held onto the umbrella, swinging around on the pivot. However, he lost his grip, and his hands slipped off of it.

31\. 30. 29. 28.

She ran up to the edge of the balcony, staring over the wall and yelling for him, with no words being emitted. The Doctor fell through the sky back-first, his arms and legs extended upwards as they reached for something to hold onto.

26\. 25. 24.

'We have to do _something_!' Mel told the woman, walking over towards the bomb. 'We can't just stand here and wait to die!'

'What do you suggest, then?' the woman retorted. 'Taking it apart and seeing what makes it go?!'

19\. 18. 17. 16.

The Doctor's umbrella fell loose from its holding, dropping to the ground after its master, whilst he still reached with his hands, determined to catch something, anything to break his fall.

Naomi looked away in horror, refusing to believe that it was happened. Tears of horror stabbed at her eyes, but she held them in, screwing her eyelids shut.

12\. 11. 10. 9.

Mel watched in horror as the bomb's countdown got lower and lower – 7. 6. 5. 4.

The Doctor's hat worked its way loose, caught by the wind. It sailed off of his head like a rat abandoning the sinking ship.

3\. The Doctor's jacket flapped in the wind, like the wings of a failing bird.

2\. Mel found herself willing the bomb to slow down, to grant them a few more precious seconds.

1\. Naomi watched the creature get ever closer towards her.

0\. Time's up.

The umbrella hit the ground with a clatter.

It was over.


	9. Chapter 9 - Battle Plans

Part 2: Playing the Game

Chapter 9: Battle Plans

Slowly, Mel opened her eyes, frightened of the spectacle in front of her. After a few seconds, her vision cleared, and she was able to see what had just happened.

In front of her, still on the table was the suitcase, with the wires still in place and parts perfectly lined up. The timer was still in its bed of machinery, and the counter was still flashing red.

But it wasn't beeping.

Gently, Mel raised the counter. In bright red numerals, it read the numbers 0. 0. 1. One second to go before it blew. One second away from oblivion.

Mel found herself sighing in giddy relief, most likely her first breath drawn since the bomb was revealed. Upon closer inspection, she saw that a single wire of the bomb had been snapped, torn into two.

A wire her hands were wrapped around just a moment ago.

'How did you…?' asked the woman.

'I guessed.' replied Mel. 'Well, there wasn't much that could go wrong, was there?'

'No, I suppose not!' laughed Eric, who had put his hands on his knees to support himself. The adrenaline was fading from his system, and it was already starting to show.

'So what do we do now?' the woman said, as she started to examine the bomb.

'I'd be careful with that bomb, if I were you.'

'Thank you, Miss Bush, but I think I can handle a few wires.'

'A few wires attached to a load of C4.' Eric muttered. 'We're still stuck down here, aren't we?'

'I'm afraid so, yes.' Mel replied. She paused for a second, then added: 'How large is this chamber?'

'The whole shelter?' the woman replied. '10 by 10 feet, I'd say. There's a chemical loo and a storeroom in the back. Why?'

'Just a thought,' Mel started 'but what we need is a distraction, isn't it? I thought we could take out the explosives, then use the detonator as a flash, distract the guards.'

'It won't work.' The woman sighed. 'They're too far up. We'd have to climb all the way up the shaft, then toss the bomb through the door and get back down before it blew us to Kingdom Come. That is, of course, presuming the guards didn't shoot us on sight.'

'She's right.' agreed Eric. 'It won't work.'

'It's just an idea…' Mel said.

About two miles away from the Centre, a black car rolled down the country late, its tinted windows shielding the cargo from any prying eyes.

Inside, Oliver checked his watch, before pulling out the walkie-talkie. They'd made specific plans not to use phones in any way – rather, they chose disposable and less traceable devices.

'What's happened?' he spoke into it, raising it to his mouth.

'We're not sure, sir.' came the crackled reply.

'What the hell do you mean, you're not sure?!' Oliver half-shouted. 'Did it blow up or not?'

'We don't know. We're sending someone down to investigate now, sir.'

'Make it quick!' Oliver snapped, before flicking off the walkie-talkie and tossing it onto the seat beside him. 'Okay, here's what we're going to do.' He said to the driver, pulling out a notepad. 'Drive on to Newsbury, drive past any police cars. This is the PM's car, so they'll have word about the bomb and let us past no questions asked. Once we're in Newsbury, we'll rendezvous with the others. Got that?'

No reply came from the front seat, and Oliver waited for a few seconds.

'Alright, then.' He said, mostly to himself. As the green countryside rushed past the car window, the black tint giving it the veneer of twilight, Oliver watched the blur passing continuously.

Once he was in Newsbury, he'd meet with the others, before getting the false passport and disguise, and making a run for it. The borders'd be too closely monitored this soon after the bomb, but it'd give him some time to prepare. He'd take the passport and reach Calais, and then he'd be free. Ever since Chambers withdrew from the E.U., most of Europe couldn't give a monkey's about Britain.

Hazily, he saw a road sign zoom past the car, just for a second, but he managed to catch it – Newsbury was to the right. A moment or so later, the car veered left sharply, forcing Oliver against the door.

'Are you blind?!' he ordered. 'Newsbury is _that_ way!' He pointed to the right, emphasising his point.

Still no reply came from the front. Frustrated, Oliver grabbed the two headrests, pulling himself forward. He remained in the squatting position, poking his head between the seats and turned to face the driver. Angrily, he shouted:

'What d'you think you're-!' he started, red-faced and brow crumpled. But then he stopped. Just in front of him, was nobody.

The driver's seat was completely empty, and the passenger seat to the left. The steering wheel tilted itself minutely, following the curve of the country road precisely, whilst the accelerator pedal pressed itself down. The car jolted forwards, and Oliver was sent flying backwards.

As he crashed into the seat behind him, he scrambled for the door handle, trying desperately to open it. But it wouldn't budge.

He cried for help, banging his open hand on the tinted black window, trying to shatter it with all his might. But it did no good.

From the outside, a silent, calm black car sped by, almost a blur. As it travelled down the lane, it gradually faded into nothingness, leaving only its shadow behind.

'Sir? Are you there? Sir!'

Henderson sighed, clicking the walkie talkie off with as much aggression as humanly possible. He'd been trying to contact Oliver every couple of seconds, but there'd been no reply.

With a hefty scoff, Henderson turned to look down the corridor. Nobody was coming. He was alone. Gently, he pulled out the pack of gum, before popping a single one into his mouth. They'd weren't supposed to chew on the job, but it was only ever going to be a part-time deal. Especially now they'd blown half of the place up.

It had been Oliver's idea, as well, to keep in contact. When they were moving from phase three, evacuation, it was vital that they each knew where each other was supposed to be – they could hardly call for help if they got lost. Anonymity was their advantage, but it strayed dangerously close to being their drawback.

Crowds of police officers were now dashing about the place, some armed, some pacifists. The crowd outside had mostly been herded away by this point, having gotten their snaps and given up on the hope of an interview. Only the diligent few remained, clinging onto the dream of that front cover story.

Henderson spat out the gum, having now finished with it. It landed on the wall opposite, amongst a collection of elegant wooden finery and antique carvings. Bullseye.

'Any word?' asked Fergus, as he walked down the corridor to meet Henderson. With light ginger hair forming a messy nest on the top of his head, Fergus was half a foot shorter than Henderson, but easily twice his weight.

'No, nothing yet.' Henderson replied. 'I've tried nine times now.'

'Maybe it's broken?'

'Doubt it. We checked all of them dozens of times before this morning. Out of range?'

'He said they're good until the border, at least! Unless he's got a secret warp engine, I think we're fine.'

'So what, then? He go deaf all of a sudden?'

'Might be.'

'No, I don't like it.' Henderson decided. 'It's not like him. Something's gone wrong. I'm going to get to the rendezvous, meet him there.'

'Are you sure?'

'Certain. The last thing I want is him messing the whole thing up.'

And with that, Henderson strode down the corridor, shoes clacking on the wooden floor.

Slowly, Naomi moved away from the balcony, stretching out her hands in front of her. It probably wouldn't do much good in terms of fending off the creature before her, but it was nice to at least have the illusion of a chance.

'L-look…' she stammered, backing into the bookshelf and dislodging a copy or two of _Mark of the Bishop_. 'I don't want to hurt you, alright?'

The creature before her quivered, like someone had set a bowl of jelly to vibrate. However, the six circles inside it remained perfectly still, unfazed by the movement.

Naomi blinked a few times, before backing away once again.

'Can you understand me?' she asked, with a little more confidence than before. And again, no reply came. 'Look, just tell me what you want, and I can help you. But I have to know.'

The trembling stopped. The creature stood perfectly still.

'Are you alright?' Naomi asked it, stepping towards it a little. The second she put her first foot forward, however, the creature started to move. Its limbs clicked forward, far too stubby to reach her but certainly loud enough to spook her.

The creature started to move, heading towards the door, at the same pace and manner in which it had entered. Naomi watched as it approached the door, before it dissolved into a green mist.

As the mist started to phase through the door, there was a blinding green flash, like a firework had just been set off in the hallway. Naomi raised her hand to shield her eyes, but by the time they got there, the light had already faded away.

It burned into her corneas, like a lightbulb in front of her. Grimacing slightly, she slammed her eyes shut, cutting off any light and covering herself in darkness. The pain vanished, without leaving so much as an ache or sting behind. Naomi opened her eyes.

She looked around, a little confused. The apartment was empty, with only herself around. Two cups of tea, going a little cold now, were on the coffee table…so she must've just had a guest. Yes, that's right! Dr…Dr Smith! No, hang on, the Doctor, not Dr Smith.

Picking up the nearest cup, Naomi felt the liquid inside. Stone cold, like it had been left for hours unattended. Absent-mindedly, she took a sip of it, before gagging and sending the freezing drink back into the mug.

Had the Doctor gone home again? Maybe…she couldn't remember him leaving. The door was bolted shut from the inside, something she rarely ever did, and it was hardly likely that the Doctor had done it on his way out.

As she picked up the mugs and walked towards the kitchen, the memories came flooding back in a millisecond. She dropped the mugs onto the floor, letting them shatter into a mess of tea and china, slamming her hands against her head.

The Doctor. Umbrella. Balcony…

As worry quickly replaced the confusion, Naomi darted towards the balcony, stopping herself just before she herself went flying over the edge. Carefully, she craned her neck, looking down the side of the building.

Far, far beneath her, rows upon rows of people passed by on the streets below. If the Doctor was down there…

The shrill ringing of the phone sounded, waking her up from her imaginings. Quickly, she grabbed the phone, hitting the answer button and putting it to her ear:

'Hello?' she asked, her voice trembling a little more than she'd have liked.

'Is this Naomi Redfern?' came the voice from the other side.

'Yes?'

'Is a man called Smith there?'

The question hit Naomi like a ton of bricks.

'Oh. I'm…I'm sorry.' she said, barely concealing her pain. 'I suppose you don't know.'

'What's wrong?' Naomi heard a woman say, a good bit away from the other phone.

'It all happened so quickly…there was nothing I could do…this man, Smith. He's…he's dead.'

The line went dead. As Naomi heard the monotonous beep of the dial-tone, she hung up the phone and threw it onto the sofa. The Doctor was right. Someone was going to call, but it was just a few minutes too late. If only she'd had the sense to ask about the end, who it was, why they were calling…

Naomi scooped up the phone and punched in 1-4-7-1, before raising it to her ear.

'The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected.' the voice said. Naomi frowned, before hanging up.

In his study, Sir Fisher drained the last of the tea from the cup and into his mouth. With a clink, he placed the cup back onto the saucer, along with the spoon. He'd wait for a few minutes, then take it back into the kitchen. Whilst there were many jobs he was happy to do around the house, the dishes was not one of them. So, one of the things he'd come to love and nigh-on worship was the dishwasher.

Wearily, he checked his watch, and after a few mental sums, he reached his answer. Providing there wasn't any trouble, it should be on its way to the third and final target. Then, it'd all be over.

Until someone else finds out, nagged a small voice at the back of his mind. In his heart of hearts, he knew how it was going to end. Once let slip, stories were the most elusive of beasts, the single hardest to detain and eventually kill. As long as there was a single scrap of evidence, no matter how nebulous or innocent, it would never stop.

Once again, he banished the thought. As long as he was on the right side, he was on the winning side, and that was all that mattered.

He rose from his seat, leaving the study in silence.


	10. Chapter 10 - Onwards and Upwards

Chapter 10: Onwards and Upwards

Mel paced back and forth, one arm supported the other and her chin rest in her hand. Eric and the woman watched her, whilst the two guards remained as steadfast as ever – more like tin soldiers than real people.

'We have to do something.' the woman groaned, looking at Eric. 'If we stay down here, we'll suffocate.'

'We go up there, we get shot. Six of one, really.' Eric replied, removing his tie and depositing it onto the table beside him.

'Is anyone actually up there?!' the woman muttered in bitter defeat. 'It's a bluff, isn't it?'

'Feel free to risk it if you want. I'm waiting down here.'

'Fine.' the woman decided, throwing herself to her feet. She walked towards the lift shaft, putting her hand around the lever to call it. However, the motors started to grind, without the lever moving an inch.

'How…?'

'Someone's coming.' Mel realised, eyes growing wide with horror. 'In the lift.'

The trio quickly moved into position, or rather, they ran to the side of the room away from the lift. The two guards turned around, raising their weapons – if nothing else, they could at least attempt an ambush.

The clanging of the lift hung in the air for a few seconds, filling the void left behind by the baited breath of the defenders.

The shaft clicked suddenly, as the lift hit ground zero. Two pistols were raised, two safeties were switched off and two fingers were placed on two triggers. They were ready.

Mel watched as the two metal sheets forming the door slid open, revealing the occupants inside. Or rather, the occupant.

It was a short man, only a couple of inches taller than Mel. But he certainly made up for it in girth, his guard's uniform on the brink of tearing open. Poorly-managed ginger locks met on top of his head, trailing towards his brow before stopping unceremoniously.

'Alright.' he said, clamping his eyes onto Eric. 'We all know how this is going to go. You,' he pointed at Eric 'come with me. The rest, you stay down here.'

'Don't suppose there's anyone else in there?' the woman asked. The ginger man scoffed in reply, looking over his shoulder at the otherwise empty lift in mock concern.

'Just the Invisible Man.' he retorted, breaking out into a small grin.

'Good.' drawled the woman. 'Now!'

The two guards sprang into action, the first grabbing the ginger man whilst the other guard plucked the gun out of his hands, tossing it across the room.

'It's, er…Fergus, isn't it?' Eric asked, walking towards the captive. 'Thought I recognised you. Just can't get the staff these days… Alistair?' he snapped, turning to face the nearest guard. Alistair leapt for a second, before straightening up:

'Sir?'

'Tie him up, there's some cables in the store room.'

'Yes, sir.'

Fergus was dragged across the room by the two guards, kicking at the floor the whole time. The store room door slammed shut, the lock clicking with a staccato.

Eric walked over to the lift, crouching down to the floor. He picked up a small, black object, before standing up again.

'What's that?' the woman asked, peering over Eric's shoulder.

'Communication device.' Eric muttered, transfixed by it. 'Won't work from down here – too much lead between us and the surface. I doubt anything'll get through it, unless the wire runs straight through like that phone over there.'

'I see.' Mel replied. 'So we can't use it to call for help?'

'No. We'd have to patch it through to the telephone wire, and that'd take long enough.' Eric said bluntly, pocketing the walkie talkie. Upon noticing Mel's curious expression, he added: 'Security training. First thing they told everyone when this place was put together. Nuclear bunker.' he said proudly, tapping the roof with his knuckles.

'Look, can we go?' Mel asked, stepping towards Eric. 'The sooner we're out of here, the better!'

'We'll have to use the ladder.' the woman said, inspecting the lift shaft. 'The lift'll be too loud.'

'How far is it?' Eric asked.

'47.0916 metres.' Mel replied within an instant. Eric and the woman looked at her in confusion. Hastily, Mel explained: 'It's 103 rungs in the ladder. It's a foot and a half between each rung, which makes it 154 and a half feet long, which is 47.0916 metres.'

'That's very good.' murmured Eric, dumbfounded.

'I've just got a good memory, that's all.' Mel smiled back. 'Wish I could say the same about my aptitude with ladders, though.'

'Sure you'll get the hang of it.' the woman scoffed back, walking over to the lift. 'Left hand, left foot, right hand, right foot and so on.'

'I think sounds familiar.' Mel replied jokingly, following her. 'We'll go up first, see if anyone's still up there.'

The woman grabbed a bolt on the roof of the lift and, using her elbow against the wall as leverage, she managed to budge it. After straining for a few seconds, the bolt clunked against the edge of the chamber. The woman slammed her fist into the hatch and let it fly open, banging against the other side of the roof.

'I'll go up first.' the woman decided, taking the first rung and starting to climb. 'When I'm on top of the lift, you start.'

'Got it.' Mel replied to the pair of legs slowly disappearing through the hatchway. She waited for a few seconds, before hearing a pair of solid, heavy knocks on the lift roof. She was on the roof – either that, or she'd fallen over twice.

Mel climbed onto the ladder, and started to work her way up. The hatch was quite small, almost so small that even someone as slight as Mel had to squeeze in a little before she was through. Thankfully, it was only an inch thick at most, so she was soon out.

As she stood on top of the lift, she could feel the slight curvature of the metal sheet under the combined weight of her and the woman. It wasn't even nearly enough to do any damage, but it was still unnerving.

The woman leant down and grabbed the handle of the hatch, before slamming it shut again. The square of light emanating from the lift was now shut off, plunging the women into darkness.

'I'll go first.' the woman repeated. 'I'm the faster climber.'

'Sounds good to me.' Mel chirped back, peering up the shaft. 47 metres wasn't that long, but when your only light source was a few determined beams breaking through the door far above you, it helped to be careful. Careful being steady, and steady being slow.

The woman clicked a torch on, which was dangling from a thin black thread hooped around her wrist. For a moment, she shone it at the ladder, before dropping it again. Instead of hitting the floor, the light hovered in the air, like a cheap imitation of a chandelier.

The soft tapping of rubber sole against metal rung sounded through the silent air, slowly getting quieter and quieter as it rose up the lift shaft. It stopped for a second.

'Okay, start climbing now.' rang the voice in the black.

'Alright, I'm coming up!' Mel said, following the faint beam of light cast down from above. It swung back and forth, the light catching the ladders rungs and casting thin shadows on the wall and floor for a millisecond, before continuing on its path and spreading the shadows back into darkness.

Mel caught sight of one of the rungs, reaching out her hand to accept it. Her fingers hooked around the metal rod, and she managed to feel her way with the other hand. She started to climb.

'You know, I don't even know your name.' Mel said, wondering if she was leaning back more than she should or not.

'No?' the voice replied. 'Never got a chance. I'm Lois. Kempf, by the way, not Maxwell.'

'And you're the Prime Minister's secretary?'

'More like his carer. Honestly, the amount of looking after he takes…you wouldn't believe he's in charge of the country.'

'My friend like's that. Smith, the one who went to see Miss Redfern.'

'Look, don't this the wrong way, are you…alright about that?'

'It's just the sort of thing he does. He doesn't take death easily.'

'I know, but it seems a little too much like denial to me. Waiting for stage two, anger.'

'Then bargaining?' Mel asked, cautiously pulling herself closer towards the ladder.

'If you like. What are you going to do if it turns out he is really dead?'

'Ah, now, there's a thing he does, when he's supposed to die. He finds a way to survive.'

'Hmm…' Lois emitted pensively. 'Sounds a bit too mystical for my liking.'

'I didn't believe it when I heard it myself. At first.'

'Each to their own. I just don't want you to end up…you know.'

'Yeah. I know.' Mel replied, laughing a little in the darkness. 'Can you see the top yet?'

'It's just-' Lois started, but she was interrupted by something. A low, grinding throb, echoing through the chamber.

'What's that?' Mel asked, looking around in search for the source. And then she looked down.

A small outline of a square, brilliant white and yellow, was at the bottom of the shaft, presumably leaking through the hatch. But it was getting bigger. The lift was coming towards them.

'Move, move!' Lois shouted, climbing with a new-found frenzy. Mel followed suit, her feet pittering and pattering on the metal rungs. The lift was still moving, still getting closer, the square getting steadily larger and larger.

The tapping stopped suddenly, leading Mel to think Lois had slipped and fallen down the shaft, but the lack of whooshes, shouts or crashes had told her otherwise.

'I'm at the top now!' she shouted, as the light started to grow. The door was opening at the top, and a beautiful orange glow cascaded down the shaft.

Mel, her hands growing sweaty thanks to the stress and effort, started to slip. If it was any other ladder, she'd hook her arms around the sides and support herself, but she didn't have time. If she stopped, the hatchway would catch her, and she'd be crushed once the light reached the top of the shaft.

She fell. As her hands slid off of the ladder, she swung madly, desperate to catch it back again, but it was no good. Like a toppling tower, she tumbled away from the wall, her feet losing their grip and joining her on her way down.

For a few fleeting, terrifying seconds, she floated in the air, the wind whipping her hair into her face and stealing the breath from her mouth.

She hit the floor with a crash. In the air, she'd rotated a little, so she landed on her side inside of her back or front. Flaring pain shot up and down her arm, but her spine and ribs were safe. Drowning in the darkness, she scrambled about, trying to claw herself to her feet.

In a few moments, she managed to find her marbles, slowly pushing herself to her feet, with her hands still planting on the floor.

The light of the door started to dawn upon her, the door cracked open a few feet.

Mel looked up, and saw the roof closing in on her. Carefully, she stepped backwards, tensing her legs like coiled springs. She took a few ragged breaths, in a futile attempt to calm herself a degree.

The gap in the wall moved closer, and closer, and closer…now!

She leapt forward, at precisely the right moment. She flew through the air, pouncing forward like a jungle cat and slipping through the door, as the lift continued on its journey, sealing the last of the gap.

A moment earlier, and she'd have caught herself on the wall and fallen back onto the lift. A moment later, and she'd have been pinned between the lift and roof, then inevitably crushed.

But she made it, one way or another. She rolled across the library floor for a second, before coming to a halt. She took in a few heavy breaths, before a sigh of relief.

'Talk about a close shave.' Lois breathed, as she helped Mel to her feet.

'You're not kidding!' Mel laughed in return.

The lift doors slid open. From inside the lift, Eric was stood there, a nervous grimace smeared across his face.

'You nearly killed us!' Lois yelled at him, stepping towards the lift…before she realised. Stood just behind Eric was Fergus, with his gun pointed at the Prime Minister's head.

'Sorry. I did try to, though.' Fergus said, emphasising the gun.

'Alright. What do you want?' Lois asked, a trace of anxiety on her voice. 'Money, support, an escape route, what?'

'What I _want_ is to kill this piece of scum.' Fergus replied, jabbing Eric in the side of the head with the barrel of the gun. 'But it's against the plan. Leverage, things like that.'

'How many of you are there?'

'Hard to tell. Quite a lot, I'd hazard a guess at.'

'Then you've got nothing to gain by killing him. Let him go.' Mel offered, swallowing quietly.

'…No, can't do that either. Hostage situation, you see.'

'Lois…' Eric started. 'Run! Forget about me, run!'

'I can't, sir.' Lois answered. 'I'm not leaving you.'

Fergus let off a single gunshot, letting it pound the pillar behind Lois, sending a few dozen shards of marble and stone into the air.

'Back in the bunker. Now!' he ordered, dragging Eric away from the lift, and pointing his gun at Lois.

'Shoot me.' she said. 'What good are dead hostages to anyone?' Fergus turned his gun…towards Mel. 'And unless she happens to be immortal,' Lois continued 'she won't be much good either.'

Fergus sighed, before aiming the gun back at Eric.

'Fine.' he said. 'Worry more about your boss' life than yours. See if I care.'

Drawing out the tension, he pulled down the hammer, letting the bullet slide into the magazine and into position.

'Last chance…' he drawled, wrapping his finger around the trigger. 'Going once, going twice, going, going…'

Fergus stopped. He had seen something, at the edge of the library. Around the main door, something was appearing. A green mist.

'What…what's what?' he asked, pointing towards it. 'Gas or something?!'

'Not like any gas I've ever seen.' Mel replied, studying it from a distance. 'Where's it coming from?'

The mist formed together, various clumps and clouds of it mixing and solidifying, until it was a single solid entity, which moved towards the group at the other end. Part of it passed through the bookshelf as it moved in a straight line, before coming back together again as it left the shelf behind.

'Oh…oh my god…' Fergus cried, dropping the gun to the floor. He turned on his heels and started to run, searching desperately for the doorknob.

'Okay…' Mel started. 'I don't think that's normal…'

The group backed away from the creature, trying to create distance. As they arrived in the lift, Mel silently cursed herself – they'd cornered themselves.

However, the creature stopped. The six red circles inside of it swam about, like sped up fish in a tank. They merged into one large orb, quivering and almost vibrating beneath the surface.

A familiar voice sounded through the mess of green and red.

'Hello, Mel.'


	11. Chapter 11 - Hostage

Chapter 11: Hostage

The chirping echoed around the chamber, bouncing off of the sides and continuing seemingly forever.

It was followed by a groaning, the wheezing of an ancient man, who had seen forever and chosen to turn back in fear.

'Where am I…?' he asked, barely able to find the breath. 'Who am I?'

The chirping morphed, shifting into a low rumbling growl, booming through the area and back again in a single second.

'I see…nowhere.' the man said glumly. 'As simple as that.'

'You are resisting the attempts.'

'Am I? Sorry about that.'

'You shall cease.'

'Cease what?'

'Cease resisting.'

'Or resist ceasing?'

The man grunted in pain suddenly as a wave of agony swept over him, burning through his synapses, one by one. Punishment, it would seem.

'Pain can be delivered. Answers cannot.'

'So, if I don't answer, you hurt me. Simple interrogation.'

'Simple interrogation.' the voice echoed. 'Answer or die.'

'Good luck getting answers out of a corpse!'

'Death is temporary.'

'So are answers.'

Another ripple of pain.

'Answer our questions.'

'And don't question your answers?'

And another. The man's throat was starting to become raw with the strain of the screaming.

'The pain will not cease. You must answer the questions.'

'All…alright.' the man moaned. 'What are the questions?'

One more surge of pain.

'They will come later.' the voice decided, with the hint of sadistic pleasure lacing its tone.

Oliver slumped against the seat, panting for breath. His arms were aching from the strain and his fists were bruised. The car had been driving for what seemed like days, but only felt like minutes.

He hadn't even made the slightest dent or crack in the door.

In his attempts to escape, he'd tried everything – grabbing the wheel and tugging it in one way, and the other; honking the horn to get the attention of passing drivers – not that there were any – and even pulling out the car keys. The slot had been empty.

Soon after he realised, the lush emerald of the British countryside merged into a harsh jade blur. They didn't pass any roads signs, or forests, or landmarks, or anything. Just the one road, moving like a bullet about to hit its mark.

'What do you want?!' he sobbed, well past the point of desperation. 'What are you doing?!'

There was no reply. At the back of his mind, he really wasn't expecting there to be, but it was a slim and foolish hope that his captors had bugged the car, if for nothing else but to hear his screams and pleas.

The accelerator was pressed down even further – they must be well above the speed limit by now. Silently, he prayed for a policeman to catch the speeding car and take pursuit. It was a vain hope, but it was better than nothing.

The brilliant blue sky and green started to mix, like paint running before it was dry. Soon, everything outside the window was a bizarre shade of turquoise.

And then it started to get closer.

Oliver backed away in fear, using the front seats to support himself. The turquoise was spreading through the glass, pressing against it, coating the car. It started to slip through, bit by bit.

It ran down the inside of the window, reaching the plastic sill and leather upholstery.

'What…what's happening?!' Oliver cried, throwing himself against the other door. His mind raced away, frantically trying to find a logical source for this phenomenon. Was he drugged? Doubtful. He hadn't eaten or drank anything today, and an aerosol would be too random. Dreaming? No, it was too vivid, even for a dream. Optical illusion? Too realistic.

He felt something tingling on the back of his neck, like a length of thread being dragged across his skin. For a second, he clawed at the flesh, trying to scratch the itch…then it spread onto his hand.

In curiosity, he turned around to inspect the window – and found it missing. The turquoise had consumed it.

Oliver flinched, moving back into the centre of the car. He looked at every window in the car; every single one of them was covered in the turquoise. He was surrounded.

In terror, he shrank into his seat, trying to squeeze the last few seconds out of his freedom. The colour spread across the car, creating a single, continuous strip around the side. The roof was still above him, but it was slowly being eaten away.

Slowly, Oliver let out a single sigh, before calming himself slightly. He was trapped, there was no debate about that. But that didn't mean he had to surrender.

He took off his shoe, held it like a rock, and then tossed it towards the turquoise, hurling it with all his might.

It vanished.

Oliver let out a laugh of bewilderment, before clasping his hands to his head. He'd attacked the window with all of his might just a few minutes ago, and now his shoe could pass through it with ease.

The roof had now been consumed, as the mottled grey fabric was over-run by turquoise. It started to move down, cascading like a waterfall. The dashboard was missing, and the steering wheel was very much headed in the same direction.

It crept up behind him through the boot, sneaking over the backseats. Like a swarm of insects moving towards their food, it gained on him. And in a matter of seconds, all hope was lost.

By this point, Oliver was darting his head back and forth, desperately alternating between front and back, left and right. It was an ambush for certain, a pincer movement of colour.

He let out an eldritch screech as the first wave of colour swept over his legs. Instantly, they went numb, as if they had never existed. The turquoise soon made its way up his leg, sucking him in.

The colour devoured his waist, before moving onto his torso. As it reached his neck and arms, the voice escaped from his throat, and his scream ended in an instant.

With the last remnants of his strengths, he grabbed onto his throat and tried to coerce the remainder of his scream out, but it did no good.

He vanished in a silent flash of turquoise, and the car followed a moment later.

Finally, the man stopped his screams. The pain stopped just as soon as it started, and he was released from it.

'Thank you.' he muttered to the voice. 'Much appreciated.'

'What is your intentions?' the voice asked, ringing in his ears.

'Here? Or in general?'

'On this planet.'

'Exploration. Investigation. Recuperation.'

'Concerning us.'

'My plans did not concern you.'

A blast of pain.

'False answers will not be tolerated.'

'You should've said that from the beginning…alright. I was curious. I saw the changes that had been made, I wanted to be sure.'

'What do you know?'

'What do I know? Depends on the day.'

' _What do you know_?!'

'A perfect number is equal to the sum of its proper positive divisors-'

'Answer.'

'The only way of discovering the limits of the possible to venture a little way past them into the impossible-'

'Answer.'

'Every action has an equal and opposite reaction-'

'Answer!'

A tsunami of crippling torment sprinted through the man's body, causing his skin to ripple and blood to fry.

'I know you who are!' he shouted, between tortured gasps of faint relief. 'And I know that you must be stopped!'

The pain stopped. The silence hung in the air, painting over the tension. Inhaling gently and, most importantly, quietly, the man waited for the reply.

'Thank you.' the voice said, before the rush of pain started up again.

The man thrashed about as much as he could, but the restraints held him in place. The violent juddering tried to break free, but it could not. His arteries began to pulsate and throb under the stress, his heartbeat working overtime and then some. His lungs went on strike, refusing to supply any more breath than was needed, and he was incapable of meaningful or deep breaths, just the shallow gasps of a doomed soul.

'No…' whispered the voice, muffled almost completely by the pain. 'Not yet…'

The man was aware of something happened, of a shifting occurring all around him, like the area around him was changing to fit someone else. And then, a second presence was beside him, or behind him, or in front of him. Or more accurately, all at once. It wasn't the vague omnipresent of the voice, but a certain aura of a person.

'Where am I?!' it bleated, terrified and distressed. 'Is anyone there?!'

'Don't worry…' the man said, his voice far more relaxed than it was a moment ago. 'You'll be quite alright.'

'You shall cease.' the voice answered, and a jolt of pain shot through the man.

But he didn't react. There was no screaming, no moaning, no outward signs of agony. Just the bored sighing filling the void.

'Something wrong?' he asked, starting to smile a little. 'Anything I can help with?'

'What's happening?' the newcomer asked, trying to find the man in the nothingness. 'Who are you?'

'Well, I'm quite a few people.' the man replied. 'But mostly, I'm known as the Doctor.'

The voice snarled in the darkness, howling at the man.

'Cease!'

'Oh? And why's that? Don't you want your p _rrrr_ isoners talking amongst themselves? Or are you just afraid they'll outsmart you?'

Another thrash of burning was sent through the Doctor – he started to yawn.

'I don't think that's going to work.' he said. 'Once you work out one trick, the others are a piece of cake.'

'Then what about your…fellow prisoner?'

The newcomer started screaming. His cries rang through the Doctor's ears, working their way in like a Tunvarian earworm.

'Ignore it!' the Doctor shouted to the captive. 'Pretend it's not happening!'

'What?!'

'Pretend it's not happening! It's just a dream!'

A few seconds later, the screams shifted into tentative pants of reprieve.

'What happened?'

'Simple psychosomatic pain stimulation.' the Doctor replied. 'Making you believe you're in pain when there's none there. Once you start doubting the dream, you start waking up.'

'That…makes no sense.'

'Welcome to the party.' the Doctor grinned. Then he turned his attention to the voice: 'Sorry if I caused any trouble…probably wondering how I did it, aren't you? Or, more importantly, why. A rather well-known trick on this planet…I believe it's known as 'playing dead.'

'What?' the voice boomed.

'Because you see, whilst you have been trying to torture me with, well, tickles, you've lowered the psychic defences, let your guard slip down, so to speak. If I concentrate hard enough…'

The voice started to growl, an animalistic cry of pain.

'…then I should be able…' the Doctor muttered, through gritted teeth. '…to take control!'

The voice vanished into the background¸ muffled by every decibel of the Doctor's voice, breath, movement.

'That's better.' he grinned, wiping his hands together. 'Now, let's see if we can't send a little message to the outside world…'

'I don't have long.' Mel heard the creature say with the Doctor's voice, as it stood trembling in the library. 'Soon enough, they'll realise the trick and stop me. But I can send a message or two. First of all, you'll have to run. There's no way to stop one of these once it's after you. They're nigh-on omnipotent.'

'Doctor!' she shouted, walking towards the creature.

'Two,' it continued 'You'll have to find me. Slight problem on my front – I haven't the faintest idea where I am. I can't be too far, judging by the psychic link. But hurry!'

'The guards'll be here in a second.' Lois informed Mel, peering through the door.

'And three – don't make any wishes unless I tell you to!'

The Doctor was probably about to explain his final point, but something cut him off. The creature started to throb, and the large orb split once again into six smaller ones.

'Doctor?' Mel asked warily, stepping back from the blob for a second.

As the six orbs settled, Mel took a closer look – they were moving again, only slightly.

A hand grabbed her shoulder and shoved her out of the way, throwing her across the floor. As she cried out and turned back, she saw one of the guards stood where she was just a moment ago.

His skin was effulgent, radiant as he backed into the lift-shaft, and his face was twisted into a barely-contained mask of agony.

'What…what's happening?' Mel asked quietly, as she made her way behind the creature. None of the others responded – instead, they simply stared at the spectacle in equal parts amazement, curiosity and horror.

The guard started to squirm, collapsing to the floor. His gun clattered beside him, now completely useless. The group watched on as he started to glow, like a fire was raging inside of him.

With the last morsel of strength, he reached for the lever and pulled on it. The two doors started to slide shut, separating the group from the light inside. As they clicked shut, the guard's screams reflected around the library, before ending up in the creature. A seventh orb appeared inside it.

'I think we should, er…' Mel started, transfixed by the creature. 'We should…run!'

The group turned on their heels around headed out of the door, the creature in hot pursuit. It scuttled after them, passing through the wall in a mess of green mist.


	12. Chapter 12 - Lines

Chapter 12: Lines

Amongst the ocean of green and brown, a single shot of black fired across a country lane. It was moving well above the speed limit, but it was handled with the expert precision of a surgeon and the delicacy of a delicatessen.

It was a perfectly carved Aston Martin DB7, roaring its way through the country with a 5.9L V12 engine, the needle on the speedometer tapping the 70.

It had faced a few specks of traffic in the opposite direction on the motorway, but it had managed to break free of the hordes as soon as it made its way onto the rutted lanes.

Inside sat its very proud owner, one Sir Fisher. He sat back in a single exact movement, so his tailored suit remained crease-free.

'Is it much longer?' he asked Alistair, who was sat in the driver's seat. 'Only, I'd like to make a call in a minute.'

'Just a few more minutes, sir.' Alistair replied gruffly. 'I don't want to push the car too fast, see. One slip and it's all over, isn't it?'

'Then don't slip.' Sir Fisher muttered dourly. He glanced through the windshield, examining the incoming target. A solid block of brown, a shape he'd come to find very familiar over the years – the Centre.

Around three hundred metres away from the Centre, the car swerved to the right suddenly, taking a turn down an almost hidden junction. The brakes squealed into action as the car slammed to a halt, propelling its dual passengers forward a few inches.

'Are we there yet?' Sir Fisher asked, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

'Yes, sir.'

Alistair pressed down the handbrake, before retrieving the keys from the slot. He stepped out of the car, using the fob to lock the doors behind him.

As he slammed the door shut, Sir Fisher producing a mobile phone from his pocket, bulky and ungainly. He stabbed in a string of numbers, before raising it to his ear. The dial-tone rang in the air, then crackled into life:

'Is it time?' asked the voice at the other end cautiously. 'Are we go?'

'Yes. Go.' Sir Fisher answered, checking his watch. 1.03. Still plenty of time before the deadline. 'We're in position.'

'Alright. I'll spread the word.'

'And be careful! You know how much this is worth, and you know what's coming to you if you fail. Now get on with it.'

The phone went dead. Sir Fisher muttered something under his breath, tucking the phone back into his pocket.

'Alright, then.' he said to Alistair. 'Time for our part, it would seem. Get the kit out of the car.'

Alistair nodded silently, walking towards the boot of the car. Inserting the key, he turned the lock and it clicked open.

Mel dropped herself against a wall, taking a series of panting breaths. Insistently, she willed herself to take quieter breaths, make as little noise as possible. They may be safe for the time being, but the guards could still be right around the next corner.

The group was waiting for Lois to plot the route outside the Centre and away into the distance. As it were, that was easier said than done.

'Okay, if we carry on past the west corridor,' she thought aloud 'then we can slip out through the fire exit.'

'Won't it set the alarm off?'

'Probably. Frankly, I don't care. If the fire brigade come, they could at least bring the police with them.' Lois replied, scoffing at the thought.

Eric mopped his brow, the torturous combination of stress and exercise clearly taking his toll.

'And then what?' he asked Lois, crumpling the handkerchief into a rough ball.

'Beg your pardon?'

'I mean, what happens after we get out of here, out of the county, even? Where do we go, what do we do?'

'Well, I've arranged for an escort.' Lois offered, crossing her arms.

'Hardly time for a date, is it?' the guard murmured under his breath.

'But what good is it going to do _us_ , Lois?' Eric asked, shaking his hands in the air. 'They will never forget today. From now on in, we're staring down the barrel of a gun.'

'Sir-'

'No!' Eric protested, his voice reaching a shout. 'There's only so far we can run! Sooner or later, probably sooner, we're going to be overrun. And no amount of good press or police escorts are going to get us back.'

'But surely they'll see you as the victim?' Mel asked. 'I mean, you are the one who was bombed, after all!'

'Does history see the Greeks or the Trojans as the heroes? In times like this, Miss Bush, the heroes are those that act, no matter how vulgar or inapposite. The suffragettes, the revolutionaries, all of them. As long as they act under a flag of future, then they will always be pardoned. They will always be the heroes.'

'I see...' Mel responded quietly, not wanting to press the subject any further. 'Shall we start again?'

Lois nodded to her, before standing up straight and taking a deep breath.

'Let's move.'

And with that, the group started to move down the corridor, creeping away from the frying pan and towards the fire.

The regular electronic beat passed through the air, like a cybernetic metronome. Sir Fisher and Alistair watched it, the former resting his face in his hands, the latter staring at it intently.

'I think it's nearly done.' Alistair said, as he strode over towards the machine. 'It said five minutes.'

The beat paused on a fermata for a few seconds, before stopping. Finally, a trio of high-pitched beeps sliced at the air, and the machine fell silent.

'Alright, let's look at the readings.' Sir Fisher ordered, peering at the large monitor attached to the device. A complex diagram of green lines filled the screen, before it tilted onto its side and formed a cube, composed of meshes of more green lines.

'Is that the Centre?' Alistair asked, perplexed by the result.

'A 3D image of it, yes. Can you see those red dots all around it? They're life-signs – well, bundles of heat. It can lock onto the average temperature of a human being. Very neat bit of tech. Now, all the guards we have posted in there have got chips on them. If we key that into the scanner…' Sir Fisher explained, tapping a few buttons on the machine's side 'then we can work out where the others are.'

Most of the red dots glowed blue for a second, before vanishing from the screen. A cluster of green dots remained in one corner.

'There we are.' Sir Fisher finished. 'Just send that information to the others, and we can start.'

He raised the phone to his ear, then dialled the number:

'Okay, they're in the north-west corner, ground floor. Good luck.'

Lois ran up to the window, pressing her face against it. Quickly and eagerly, she scanned up and down the countryside.

'The coast seems clear.' she said, turning back to the others.

They were stood in the kitchen of the Centre, which mostly went unused, in all honesty. Every now and then, they'd have a guest over and want to put on a show, but most of the time, the kitchen was a ghost town.

Fortunately, it was located in the north-west corner of the building, away from Eric's office and, more importantly, the attention it was carrying.

Through the window, she could see the village of Dibton, a scant few perfect collections of brick and glass in a valley. It had sat in this place for 500 years, and would do so for centuries to come.

Mel had managed to locate the kettle, and had set about brewing half a dozen cups of tea. Various quantities of milk and sugar were deposited, then handed out. Personally, she had never been that big a fan of tea, not since the incident in Tabby and Tilda's flat, but she had just about convinced herself that she wouldn't be eaten by OAP lesbian cannibals…again.

'Any sign of the escort?' she asked Lois, handing her a cup of tea.

'Don't think so, no.' she took a swig from the mug, before recoiling – _far_ too much sugar. 'Then again, the traffic'll be hell getting here, all the tourists escaping. Have you got a car we can use?'

'Sorry, I got the train.' Mel replied. Using the reflection in the glass pane, she cast a hasty glance at Eric, who was sat in the corner quietly. 'Is he alright?'

'He's, er…not good with pressure.' Lois answered nonchalantly, not taking her view off of the window. 'Should've seen him at the Paris treaty last month. Effing and jeffing all the way home.'

'I don't want to seem presumptive, but is he the best person for the job, then?'

Lois let out a small laugh. She's answered this question a million times before.

'That would depend. Are you likely to tell anyone?'

'No-one.'

'Good. Then no. He's way above his head, if you ask me. What he really needs is a letter of resignation, give him a bit of peace.'

'Would you take over?'

'Not in a month of Sundays. Jobs like this, I've seen what they do to people. They fritter away their lives to get it, then it decays whatever years they have left. You've got to be careful what you wish for.'

There was a flash in Mel's mind. Like a circuit being completed, a pipe being cleared, it all suddenly seemed clear. Quickly, she replayed the last few minutes in her head, trying to find the exact train of thought.

'Wish…' she muttered, her eyebrow cocked with confusion. 'Wish!'

'Hm?' asked Lois, drinking from the mug. 'What was that?'

'What the Doctor said to us before, through the…the thing! Don't make any wishes!'

'Well, he was being metaphorical, wasn't he?'

'I thought that too, but what if it was literal? You heard what he said – they're nigh-on omnipotent. What if they could grant wishes?'

'Like a sort of…extra-terrestrial genie?'

'Something like that, yes! It might explain all the differences…'

'What differences?'

'That's what got the Doctor's attention, you see. He said that there were differences, changes to the timeline. That's why he sent me to investigate here. What if the changes were caused by wishes?'

'Sent here to investigate us?' Lois asked, tilting her head slightly.

'Oh.' Mel said bluntly, realising her mistake. 'I can explain later-'

'No need.' sighed Lois. 'To be frank, that's the least of my worries. One more double agent; that's all we needed.'

In the surrounding area, an order was given. A single, monosyllabic utterance, spread across the countryside like butter across bread: Go.

Around a hundred people stormed into action, running into their positions and awaiting further orders. They were all ready to strike, spring into action. It had been planned, researched, discussed, confirmed, informed, rehearsed and finalised dozens of times over the months, until every single cog knew its part in the machine, and every single cog knew exactly when to tick and exactly when to turn.

On the perimeter of the battlefield, Sir Fisher was waiting, prepared to deliver the next round of orders to his lieutenant. He was rather too old to be taking part in the main event, so he was satisfied to remain on the side lines and supervise the event. However, he was a stalwart supporter nonetheless.

'Arm.' he said into the mobile phone, maintain his gaze on the Centre. The word was understood all around, as a hundred safeties clicked off and a hundred volunteers braced themselves for the imminent combat ahead.

Gently, Sir Fisher took a deep breath, preparing himself for the moment before him. The gears of history were grinding into place. He raised the phone once more:

'Fire.'

'What's that?' Mel asked, lowering her now empty cup onto the windowsill. Lois glanced at her:

'What's what?'

'That sound…'

Lois listened for a second, before shaking her head.

'I can't hear anything.'

'In the distance,' Mel explained 'just barely audible.'

Eric arose, his head slanted to one side.

'I can hear it.' he agreed, peering curiously at Mel. 'A kind of…rattling, isn't it?'

'Could it be an earthquake?'

'In England?!'

'It's one of those days…' Mel explained with a snigger. As she glanced back at the window, her eyes grew wide with fear. 'Oh no…'

'What is it?' Eric asked, joining her. He saw it as well.

In the distance, atop the nearest lip of the valley was a hazy black line, blurred by the distance. However, as it got closer, it was soon clear what it was.

A row of black-clad figures, charging towards the Centre.

'What are they?' Lois asked, using her hands to improve her sight of them. 'Soldiers, police, what?!'

'Whatever they are…' Mel said resignedly 'I don't think they're good news.'

The black line got closer and closer, until each figure was clearly defined on its own. Mel was able to make out a weapon in each of their hands, aimed directly at the kitchen.

They stopped a few metres away from the Centre, the weapons raised so the sights matched up perfectly to the eyes. Each of the figures wasn't in commando gear, or even riot uniform. It was hoodies, shirts, jeans, anything black they could get their hands on. It wouldn't do them the slightest bit of good in battle, but it'd give them a uniform to defend.

'Do they want us?' Mel asked, slowly backing away from the window. 'Or are we just in the way?'

'Possibly both…' Eric responded, as the group formed a knot in the centre of the kitchen. 'Possibly neither.'

'Very helpful, sir.'

'Thank you.'

The nearest figure released their weapon. As it dangled on a length of rope around their torso like a messenger bag, they grabbed something from their pocket. Mel only released what it was when it was too late.

'Get down!' she cried, dropping to the ground of the kitchen. A black orb sailed through the air, smashing through the kitchen window and dropping to the ground with a clatter.

A grenade.


	13. Chapter 13 - Siege and Conquer

Chapter 13: Siege and Conquer

There was a tremendous bang, like a firework being let off mere inches away from your face. The flash filled Mel's eyes, blocking out the rest of the room for a short while. But she was alive.

'What…what's happening?' she coughed, placing a hand over her mouth. An acrid smell started to creep into her mouth and nose, like the tendrils of a plant working their way into the soil around them. She gagged, trying to eject the gas, but it was to no avail.

'It's a smoke grenade!' shouted the guard, his hand firmly clamped over his mouth. He staggered towards Mel, reaching out his free hand to grab onto her.

Before he could reach her, however, he stumbled onto the ground, rapidly running out of breath.

There was a huge chain of smashing and crashing from across the kitchen, as every one of the windows fell into a pile of shards. Within a matter of seconds, every single one of the windows was an empty frame, a collection of glass beneath them.

The line of figures started to step through the window frame, weapons raised the whole time.

'In.' one of them said bluntly, pausing for a second to deliver the word. Then, they continued, swarming through the kitchen under a cloak of fog.

'Come on!' Mel heard a voice bellow down her ear, as someone grabbed her shoulders and shove her forward. Her legs started to run, uneasy and awkward, but it was running. She was getting away nonetheless.

The someone shoved her forward through the window, and she travelled through the air, her hands out in front of her and eyes screwed shut.

Outside the window, she plummeted onto the ground, rolling for a few feet before coming to an unceremonious halt. Laboriously, she rose to her feet, taking in the sweet sniffs of fresh air.

'We have to keep moving.' the someone said, just behind her. Like a shot, she spun around, desperate to see who her saviour was – it was Eric. 'The others won't be long,' he added hastily 'but we have to get away.'

'The…the smoke…' Mel gasped, her hands around her throat.

'Nasty, I know.' Eric agreed. 'Sorry to say you get used to it.

An instant later, Lois and the guard scrambled through the windows, dropping to the ground and drawing in new breaths.

'We can hide in Dibton.' Eric decided, tucking his hands into his pockets. 'But we'll have to move fast. They could very easily double back in there.'

'Alright. Anywhere in particular?'

A boom emanated from the Centre, rocking the four escapees a little.

'Run?' Mel asked Eric quietly.

'Run.'

The group started to sprint down the slope towards the village, their frantic feet only just about stopping them from falling flat on their faces. The grass was still a little damp from the morning dew, so they slipped and slid all the way down to the bottom of the hill, the mud squelching underneath their shoes.

Finally, they managed to come to a stop at the foot, almost tumbling into the mire in the process.

'Now where?' Mel asked, her hands resting on her hips as she caught her breath.

'Just there.' Eric answered, pointing at a cottage just by the church. 'Come on.'

In reality, it was probably only a few yards, but it felt much longer to Mel. She was already exhausted from the run down the hill, and the smoke grenade before that. At this moment, she was quite happy to lie down and let the figures take her, but she had the distinct impression that that wasn't an option.

'Come on!' Lois shouted, grabbing Mel's wrist and tugging her across the village. In cottage windows and shop doors, people stared at the spectacle storming through their quiet village. They all recognised Eric Chambers, that was for sure. The lanky, dark-haired woman by his side, she was in a few of the pictures as well. But the towering man and petite ginger woman were completely out of their guessing range.

They made their way towards the Grover Cottage, a small, dusty house in the far corner of the village. Nobody ever went up to it aside from the odd postman – and they'd certainly have to be odd to do so.

'Okay, where is it, where is it…?' Eric exclaimed, as he patted down his pockets. 'The key, I had it just a moment ago…'

Mel sighed, grabbing onto Eric's shoulder and pulling him back.

'You're going to want to stand back.' she warned, bracing herself.

The front door flew on its hinges, banging against the wall of the cottage. Outside, Mel lowered her left leg to the ground, laughing to herself a little.

'Where did you learn to do that?!' Eric asked, dumb-founded by the sight.

'I took tae-kwan-do in school.' Mel chuckled, stepping inside the cottage.

'You don't say…'

Eric went to lock the door, but to no avail.

'I don't suppose you can kick a lock back onto it?'

The last few of the guards were rounded up. One by one, they were escorted through the Centre, before reaching the library. In the middle stood Riley, the figure placed in charge at the start of the plan, with carefully-placed auburn curls, porcelain-like skin and a slender, willowy figure.

'I think that's the last one…' he said into a phone. 'We're doing one last sweep to check, though.'

'Very good.' came the voice down the phone. 'Keep in touch, I'm moving in now.'

Before the figure could reply, the phone snapped into static.

'Word from Sir Fisher?' asked a younger figure. 'Is everything alright, Riley?'

'Sh!' Riley insisted, pulling the younger person to the side. 'We're not using names, are we, Lloyd?'

'No.' Lloyd apologised. 'Sorry.'

'It's alright. And yes, everything's going according to plan. Have we got the lift-shaft open yet?'

'Nearly. Exactly as Sir Fisher told us to.'

'Good. A nuclear bunker fifty metres under here. Perfect little jail cell, if you ask me.'

The metal doors slid open, revealing the lift inside.

'Alright, you lot!' Riley shouted to the first group of guards. 'Into the lift, and quietly!'

The swarm stifled, unwillingly to obey the orders. Riley groaned, before retrieving a firearm from his pocket.

'Now!' he yelled, squeezing the trigger. A bullet was fired from the gun, and it collided with the marble roof above them, sending a shower of dust and plaster down.

The guards flinched, moving towards the lift. When as many of them as possible had been squashed into the steel cage, the doors started to slide shut. The lift was lowered to the ground, the grinding fading out of earshot.

'Okay,' Riley told the others. 'Get the next party ready.'

'Really?' Lois asked, checking the time for the fiftieth time that minute. 'Alright, we'll wait here for as long as we can. You've seen the reports, then? No, I don't know what they want either. Keep an eye on them.'

She hung up the phone, placing it back onto the receiver. At the moment, she was sat on a dusty old box in a dusty old loft, trying to press together the scraps of the day and make something worthwhile.

'There you are!' Mel said, as she climbed through the hatch. 'I've been looking for you!'

'Hm? Oh, right.' Lois said, standing up from her seat. 'How's Eric doing?'

'He's asleep. He must be exhausted.'

'I think we all are.' Lois yawned. 'We've been up for…30 hours, now? Something like that. There's a spare room, if you want it.'

'No thanks. I don't like sleeping. Not when there's something to be missed.'

'I see what you mean. We nod off, the troops come knocking an hour later?'

'More like it'd be rather boring.'

Mel strode towards the window – well, it was really more of a crack – and glanced at the Centre. The smoke had all cleared by this point, with a few wafts still hanging the air. Apart from that, the Centre was as deadly still as it always was.

'What do you think they want?' she asked, searching for any sign of life in the building.

'What, the invaders? I don't know. Too much pomp and circumstance to be reinforcements. Not professional enough to be the army or anything big like that. And there's nothing of value in the Centre – well, nothing worth storming it like that. Any information will be rendered useless in a couple of days, and the antiques are all insured.'

'They didn't seem to care about Eric, either.' Mel added.

'Sorry?'

'Well, somebody tried to blow him up a few hours ago. He's clearly not the most-liked person in the country, is he?'

'I see what you mean. But he'd gotten away. Maybe he just wasn't worth the time, going back to kill him?'

'Maybe.' Mel turned to the village, watching it from above. 'I used to live somewhere like this. Pease Pottage.'

'Oh yes…my sister moved there a couple of months ago. Did you move out?'

'Well, no…' Mel paused. 'I suppose I still live there.'

'Sorry?'

'It's complicated. See, the Doctor – Doctor Smith, he picked me up from there. And we go around travelling together.'

'Like hippies?'

Mel laughed: 'A bit like that, yes.'

'I know the sort. Bet you're still on your gap year, aren't you?'

'Actually, I'm a computer programmer.'

'You mean you've got a job?!'

'Yes!' Mel said, perhaps a little too defensively. 'Or at least, I did have a job…like I said, it's complicated.'

'Must be, if you go travelling all the time.'

Mel turned back to the crack, looking at the Centre once more. She didn't want to grace that with a reply, needless to say. Lois sighed noisily:

'Alright,' she started 'Tell me about these changes.'

'What?'

'You said your…Doctor had found changes in the, er…timeline, was it? So tell me about them.'

'I'm really not the expert.'

'Neither am I. I'm just interested.'

Mel considered this, before surrendering.

'Imagine if you could travel in time.'

'Right.'

'Now imagine going back to the past.'

'Right.'

'And you meet the creator of…Volkswagen.'

'Hold on, so I can meet the creator of Volkswagen in the past, but I can't even get a letter through to the Times editor today?'

'Just imagine it.'

'Right.'

'And you convince them to change the name from Volkswagen to…People Car.'

'Right.'

'Then in the present day, every Volkswagen would then be called People Car. That sort of change. It's a vast spatio-temporal event that creates anomalous resonation throughout the timeline continuum.'

Lois took this in, then thought about it for a second.

'So…it's like that bit in _Back to the Future_?'

Mel sighed in defeat.

'Yes. Like _Back to the Future_.'

'I see. So you think something's changed the past, which has changed the future?'

'Yes! Exactly!'

'Right…but how would you know what's changed? If you're from this present as well, surely, it'd be the same to you?'

'Ah.' Mel said, biting her lip. 'That's the complicated bit. You see, me and the Doctor, we…we travel in time.'

'Time?'

'And space.'

'Time _and_ space? Right!'

Mel watched Lois, as she started to pale over slightly. And then as she let out a monstrous laugh.

'Time travel? Man alive! That's the best you lot in the S.I.S. can come up nowadays?'

'S.I.S.?'

'Oh, don't play stupid with me, Mel. We both know why you're here. You think Eric's up to no good, don't you? So you were sent to _investigate_ ,' Lois echoed, stressing the word to Mel 'us and find out what was happening. Am I right?'

'I don't know what you think,' Mel replied 'but I'm not a spy. Honestly, I'm not!'

'Right…yeah…!'

'If I'm a spy, then what was that green… _thing_ that came after us before?'

'A mobile communications system. That's how the Doctor managed to speak through it. By the way, 'the Doctor'? Bit too _The Prisoner_ , if you ask me.'

'I'm not a spy!' Mel shouted, before a hand was placed over her mouth. Lois muffled the cries, shushing her slightly.

'Don't worry,' she said 'you're not the first spy we've had. Seems everyone wants a piece of the action these days. I won't hurt you. Just forget everything you've seen, and you can go home.'

'Please, you must listen to me! I'm not a spy! I'm on your side!'

'So you're a supporter, then? You still think he's some great, misunderstood hero? Look at the stuff in here, then.' Lois ranted, tearing open one of the cardboard boxes. 'He likes to keep everything the media says about, from the junkets to Desert Island Discs. It's all here, down to the last detail.' A flurry of newspapers scattered out of the boxes, yellow and crinkled. 'Have your opinion all you want, but good word can only cover so much.'

Lois marched towards the hatch, swinging it open.

'Go on, read it!' she snarled, stepping down the ladder. 'See how long your hero worship lasts after that!'

The hatch slammed shut, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Mel huffed quietly, crossing her arms, before squatting down and scooping up the scraps of papers from the floor. However, the first headline caught her eye.

'What's this?' she asked to herself, as she started to read.

It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that there wasn't a single positive word in that box. The press could be the kindest of guardians on a good day, but when the price was right, they'd turn into the most incisive of weapons.

And when they were handed a feast like Eric Chambers, they'd devour the meat in seconds.

Mel felt a single tear role down her cheek, as she saw the same image of Eric over and over and over again, in black and white, colour, even pop-art at one point. She didn't quite know what she was crying for – betrayal? Anger? Disgust?

Whatever it was, she could feel it, resting on her soul, like an anvil weighing down her spirits. She was familiar with the spirit of doppelgangers, but never like this. Never had she seen two people so far apart with the same face like this before.

By the time the newspaper reached the floor, Eric Chambers was dead to her.


	14. Chapter 14 - Plan A

Chapter 14: Plan A

The Doctor squirmed, fidgeting in his place. He could feel a presence, something shifting in the area. But it wasn't like when the fellow prisoner had entered, no – it was much more comfortable, used to the experience.

' _Is the mission accomplished?_ ' came the voice, presumably asking the presence.

' _Negative_ ,' the presence replied. ' _Psychic attack left weakened state_.'

'Perhaps a cup of tea will help?' the Doctor chortled, grinning as much as possible.

' _Silence_.'

'Sorry. Do carry on.'

' _Who remains?_ '

' _Target third_.'

'Target third? What sort of grammar is that?!' the Doctor tried to shout. A supposed jolt of pain was fired at him, having as little an effect as he had planned. By this point, the X almost definitely knew how useless it was – most likely just pent-up irritation.

' _Heal energy components_ ,' the voice decided ' _then retry mission_.'

'Oh, I see!' the Doctor said 'This is your Pitbull, then? Attack dog? You choose a target and this acts for you?'

' _Silence_.'

'Make me.'

The voice didn't reply. The Doctor waited for a couple of seconds, taking slow, precise breaths. The silence cloaked the area completely.

'Ah! Can't, can you?' the Doctor asked, more amused than curious at this point. ' _Human_ minds may be simple enough for you to decipher, but a Gallifreyan, especially one as finely-tuned as mine? It's a game of psychic chess, and I've got all the pieces!'

'What's happening?' the other man said, lost in the fog of the debate.

' _Human minds…_ ' the voice repeated, almost matching the Doctor tone-for-tone and beat-for-beat.

'Doctor?'

' _Simple enough…_ '

Most likely too late, the Doctor finally released what was happening.

'No, no, don't!' he shouted, trying desperately to resist, move, anything. 'I'll stop!'

' _Decipher_ …'

The man started to shout, discordant, erratic, staccato stabs of sound in the silence.

' _Every creature has a weakness, Doctor. Some physical, some…otherwise. Even you. Empathy. It is your base desire to protect all living things, is it not?_ '

'Yes, yes, yes! You win! Leave him alone!'

The shouts grew louder, with each scream becoming longer and longer. Soon, they developed into a single howl, burning through the Doctor's ears.

' _You can be impervious, Doctor, but that does not mean that you cannot be wounded. As long as your…co-prisoner is within our grasps, we have a hold on you._ '

The screams stopped. The Doctor, with baited breath, waited for the response from the man. Seconds passed…more and more…then it finally came.

'What…what was that?' the man whimpered, shivering from the strain. 'I…I tried to imagine it wasn't there, forget it…but it didn't work. It didn't disappear, or fade, or anything!'

'The pain before was stimulation, just…playing with the nerve endings.' the Doctor explained slowly, making sure that he fully understood it himself. 'But this, it was…'

' _Psychic destruction_.' the voice finished proudly. ' _Instead of the manipulation of a temporal presence in the mind, it simply removes it._ '

'What does it mean?'

'It was destroying your mind. The effects may still be felt.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Where did you go to school?'

'I…I can't remember.' A beat. ' _Why can't I remember_?!'

'The creature, it removed the memories from your mind. They should return in due course.'

' _If you rebel again, then the few memories remaining will perish into dust and time_.' the voice warned, like a slave-driver chiding its herd. ' _It will be swift and soon, but it won't be painless. Is this understood?_ '

'…Yes.' the Doctor sighed wearily in defeat. 'I understand.'

' _Good. Proceed with the plan. Heal._ '

The entity started to bubble and churn, mixing and mashing with the area around it. Energy shifted up, down, around and through the Doctor, as if he was a buoy in the middle of a tsunami. The whole time, he could feel a nagging sense of worry, that elsewhere across the board, the game wasn't go quite according to plan.

Naomi rang the phone for the fifth time in a row. Naturally, she wasn't any more optimistic than she was the last four times, but she didn't have much else to do.

Well, that wasn't quite true. There was still that matter of the book to finish…and the doctor's appointment to book…and the shopping to put away…

She shook her head, clearing the thoughts for a second. Raising the phone, she tapped in 1-4-7-1 one last time, and heard the dial tone hum through the speaker.

There was a thought, just at the back of her head, that she'd forgotten something. Something very big, and very important, but it wasn't there. The last hour or so of her life was foggy, the details all blurred and blended and swapped around. A man called Smith had entered her flat, wanting to talk to her about the book. A few minutes later, he walked over to the balcony and jumped off. Frankly, it was all rather mystifying.

After waiting with the dial tone for 30 seconds, she gave up and hung up the phone. If they weren't answering by now, they were probably out. Give it a few hours then try again.

All she wanted to do was ask about the last conversation they'd had, possibly clear up a few details. She had the vague recollection of calling someone, or someone calling her, but the actual words were still eluding her. Like it was really a dream she'd just woken up from.

Perhaps it was a dream, after all. There was no sign of this Smith on the pavement outside her building, no evidence of him every being here inside the apartment. And she was rather prone to nodding off in the middle of the day – a side effect of working to the small hours then waking up at seven regardless.

Absent-mindedly, she started to put the shopping away. She preferred to make frequent, light trips to the shop, partially because it was less to haul up the stairs and partly because it gave her a distraction from the writing every couple of days.

As she grabbed the bottle of milk and slotted it into the fridge, she started to run through the events of the last hour mentally for the umpteenth time. He had come in, discussed the book, and then jumped off of the balcony. Pausing for a second, Naomi frowned. Surely her book wasn't _that_ bad, was it?

What _exactly_ had they discussed, then? The plot, the characters, the reception, what? Naomi racked her brains, as she put the tin of salmon in the cupboard. It was pretty much par for the course for her to forget a conversation; it just so happened that most people she talked to possessed that uncanny ability to speak for ages in a monotonous, uninterrupted drone, without a single one of the words being remembered afterwards.

Naomi crumpled up the plastic bag, the shopping completely away now. She tucked the bag inside the cupboard under the sink, before stopping to think. There was a nagging sense in her mind, eating away at the doubts, as if her memory was shouting at her – no! It wasn't a dream! Come on, remember! Remember!

It was no good. She couldn't force herself to remember, no matter how much she wanted. It was like trying to shove a brick through a sieve within either one breaking. The sides of her head were starting to throb, the early symptoms of a killer headache.

All she'd do know is give herself a migraine.

In defeat, she looked up and down the kitchen, inspecting the stock. She needed sugar, and teabags. Grabbing the notepad from the counter, she started to make a list – or rather, continue the one she already had. Milk, she already had that; she put a cross next to it.

She paused, staring at the list, or more accurately, the cross she'd just written. X. And like a punctured dam, it started to rush back into her mind, like an unstoppable flow of water. Furiously, she started to scrawl onto the paper, with frantic joy: X. Green. Door. Mist. Round. Memory.

It was a crude, jagged list of facts, but it served its purpose well enough. Not only could she remember, she now had a list, something to remind her constantly.

A white-hot pain stabbed in her head, prompting her to grimace and clutch it, letting the notepad drop to the floor. A flash of green filled her eyes, before fading after a few seconds.

She stood up. The pain had vanished, any effect of it absent. What had brought it on?

Confused, she padded back into the living room, her foot knocking against the notebook. It slid underneath the fridge, knocking against the wall. Lost.

In a trance, Naomi picked up the two lukewarm mugs of tea, carrying them back into the kitchen. Maybe she just needed a lie-down…

'Do you know what a firewall is?' the Doctor asked, biting into the words. 'An earth term, but it's a common enough concept. It's something used in computers, programming, to be precise. Something my friend Mel was telling me about. When you want to protect the software of a computer, you put up a firewall, and it acts as a shield. Keeps out any nasty little viruses.'

' _Irrelevant_.'

'If you so say. Because you act like a virus, don't you?' the Doctor continued regardless 'Hacking into people's memories, changing what they think, or feel, or remember. A nasty little procedure, if you ask me. But you seem to be forgetting; just before you interrupted me, I was able to psychically link with Miss Redfern. Give her just a little bit of an advantage over you.'

' _Irrelevant_.'

'So when you left, you would've tried to wipe her memory, correct? What if the memories had already been backed up? The potential remained for the whole, the potential for remembrance.'

' _Irrelevant_.'

'But you've left her alone. You've only got one attack mode, and you can only use that one at a time…not so omnipotent. And what if she remembers? Writes it down, tells a friend about it? The word could spread faster than a wildfire, and you'll have no way of stopping it, will you? Are you going to devour the entire human race? Or just the side that's listening?'

' _Irrelevant_.'

'Irrelevant?! This could just about be the single most important factor to your entire plan, and you're calling it irrelevant?!'

' _Irrelevant_.'

'Oh, I see. It's part of your plan, isn't it? You already know all of this, don't you? That's why it's irrelevant; there's nothing new. You've planned ahead…'

' _Irrelevant_.'

'…which means that there's nothing I can do. You knew I was going to put up the firewall. She can't remember, can she?' The Doctor groaned. 'At least that means that she's safe. You won't go for her.'

' _The risk is still present_ ,' the voice answered, almost bored in its tone. ' _No matter how small. In time, she will be destroyed_.'

'No…' the Doctor murmured, as a thought sprang into his head. 'No…she's too small. She's a risk, but a small one. If you were to take the time out to stop every individual threat, you'd never get anything done.'

' _Irrelevant_.'

'I can hardly think of anything _more_ relevant at the moment! In a game of chess, the pawns can count more than the queen! Any player worth their salt knows that. She matters, and you've realised that. One fell swoop?'

' _You shall cease talking_.'

'Shall I?' Another futile jolt of pain. 'I'm not getting out of here anytime soon…might as well pass the time.'

The area shifted another time, contracting and releasing a couple of times.

'Making a move, are we?' the Doctor asked, trying to ignore the energy swarming. 'Going for the kill?'

' _Silence_.'

'That's a yes, then. But who are you going for? The rook? The knight? The bishop?'

The voice shouted back, joining in the game: ' _The king_!'

In the middle of the English countryside, there was a field. It had stood there since the planet's dawn, uninterrupted, slowly growing its kingdom of plants and life. Until now.

It started to churn, the ground sinking into itself like sink-water being sucked down the grain. However, it stopped before it disappeared, a dip in the unbroken landscape. A black void materialized in the centre of the field, completely devoid of shape, light, anything.

The grass surrounding it remained immaculate, perfectly still, as if not even a breeze was in the air. The tree curved in the air, the arched wood unaware of the strange events happening around it.

As the field started to slowly right itself, the black circle vanished, the foliage healing over the wound. Moments later, it was normal again, as if the bizarre spectacle had never even occurred.

A green mist had formed over what remained of the black hole, and it grew more translucent as the hole shrank into nothingness. A large green circle hovering above the field, before the internal red orb and forest of legs formed, completing the appearance.

It held a solitary red orb in its belly, the others having been emptied into the consciousness during the healing cycle. The essences of the victims would become a part of the entity, like a prey becomes the food in the stomach of the predator.

It fluttered its limbs, gliding across the field towards its new target. It had failed once. It was imperative that it didn't fail again.

'Leave them alone!' the man shouted, although he wasn't quite sure in which direction. 'Just shut up!'

The Doctor laughed in response, attempting to put up a veneer of softness.

'They can hurt me, you know!' the man added, letting loose his anger. 'Not you, no, you're alright! I'm the one who's going to suffer!'

'If my plan works…' the Doctor whispered 'then no-one will have suffered at all.' If either of them had a corporeal form at that moment, he would've winked conspiratorially. But alas, he had to make do with the warm tone of voice.

'Has your pet left, then?' the Doctor asked the voice. 'Been sent after its next prey?'

' _The plan will proceed_.'

'That's good to hear…' muttered the Doctor in response. 'The black moves are just as important as the whites.'

'What?!'

'Have you ever heard the saying 'playing chess against a pigeon'?'

'No?'

'Ah. Neither have I. I was rather hoping you could explain it to me…Perhaps I will, soon enough…'

As the sun set over London, 6.5 million people went to sleep. Some ventured out into the urban jungle; others awoke, ready for the various night shifts; some lay awake in bed, crying out for the grasp of sleep to consume them.

Naomi stood on her balcony, watching the amber horizon fade into deep cobalt and azure. Shivering slightly, she wrapped her dressing gown around her a little tighter, before taking another medicinal sip of the cocoa.

She'd spent the last few hours racking her brain, trying to remember whatever it was that she had to remember. After finally surrendering the battle, she'd left a notepad by her bed, and decided to rather literally sleep on it. After a few years of writing, she'd learned that her best ideas come at the most inconvenient of times.

Draining the last of the cocoa from the mug, she stepped back inside, sliding the balcony door shut. Rinsing the mug out in the kitchen sink, she walked through the bedroom.

She slept a dreamless sleep.


	15. Chapter 15 - Truth Comes Out

Chapter 15: Truth Comes Out

Mel sprinted down the stairs, making sure that every single one of her steps pounded against the wooden ledges. As a result, she almost fell down them, thanks to the sheer speed she was moving at.

However, she managed to keep her balance the whole way down. The last thing she wanted would be to topple over and crack a bone on the steps.

It was quite a rarity for her to get angry. Normally, she much preferred to forgive and forget, accept it had happened and move on with her life. But not this time. Nothing this big had happened before. Not to her, and not like this.

'Mel!' Eric said, almost knocking into her as she went around a corner. 'I've been looking for you!' Upon noticing her expression, he decided to add: 'What's wrong?'

'How could you?!' she asked, brow furrowed in anger. 'How _could_ you?'

'What do you mean? I haven't…' he stopped, as his eyes grew large with horror.

'Everything you've done!'

'Mel, you must understand-'

'No. I understand.' she said, spitting out every word. 'I know all about people like you. You never seem to stop!'

'Mel! Please!'

'No! I've had enough of your lies!

Eric watched in despair as Mel turned and stomped away, disappearing around the next corner. He stood on the spot, running his hands through his admittedly thinning hair. He'd gotten well used to people having this reaction to seeing him, but not her. Not now. Not after all this.

Lois approached behind him, her arms crossed over her chest.

'Something the matter?' she asked through pursed lips.

'Am I a monster?'

Lois paused, tilting her head a little to the side. This was something new. 'Sorry?'

'You heard me. Am I a monster? When people look back at us, when history reflects…how are we going to sound? Like the heroes, or the villains? Someone coping admirably under times of great strain and turmoil…or a Machiavellian trickster, who grabbed all the power he could find and clung onto it for dear life?'

'Sir, I-'

'Because they'll remember. One way or another, they'll remember us. All we can do is wonder how. By the time it's decided, we'll both be long gone.' he let out a hollow, single laugh. 'So what will it matter to us? When we're six foot under, we won't care what anyone thinks. In fact, I don't think you care now!'

'Sir, I'm sure you're just-'

'I'm not _just_ under stress, or in shock, or panicking! This is history, this is _my life_! Do you think I want any of this? To…tear this country apart, like a shattered glass? I'm as much a prisoner of this as the people we attack, only I don't get the sympathy. People would rather see me as the devil, than think of me as a fallen angel. It's much easier, you know, to hate someone outright than realise they might be worthy of redemption. But no. I'm not someone dragged into the mess and torn to shreds every which way but loose. I'm just the next Hitler, someone you can chuck bombs at, and make threats at, and then go home like nothing ever happened. It's remarkable, how much hate comes disguised as peace.'

On the last word, he struck the wall with the flat side of his fist, before taking a few deep breaths through gritted teeth. The wood dented a little, a few of the panels cracking under the force. As he started to calm down, the breaths came easier and easier, before his jaw began quaking slightly.

'There's no way out, you know.' he said finally, turning his head a little to face Lois. 'If I die now, I can't defend myself. If I carry on, it'll just get worse. There's nothing I can do…nothing…'

'Sir.' Lois said plainly, stepping beside him. 'With all due respect, you know how the public are. In a few weeks, they'll move on and half of them will forget your name and face.'

Eric laughed bitterly:

'It's been 2000 years, but we still remember Julius Caesar, and King Herod. They weren't forgotten in a few weeks, were they?'

'No,' Lois replied quietly 'I suppose they weren't.'

'But then again,' Eric started 'look at rulers and leaders and sovereigns and presidents the world has seen. Must be in the thousands. History can't remember all of them, can it? Some must be, er…sacrificed. Forgotten, so others can be remembered. Perhaps I will be fortunate enough to the former.'

'Perhaps.' Lois repeated, looking away from Eric.

'Always wanted to do something important, that's my trouble….' he murmured, wiping the dust from his hand. 'So eager to get started, I never which bloody game I was playing in the first place. I started off playing poker, and it turned out to be chess.'

'We've all been there. Thought we knew what we were doing, went blundering in, guns blaring. Thought we were in the right. Happens to the best of us.'

Eric smiled softly, his eyes twinkling against his better judgment and wishes.

'Yes,' he answered 'I suppose you're right.'

Fergus reached out his hands, feeling them slam into contact with the solid concrete floor beneath him. His arms bent into an acute angle, almost gently cushioning him down from the blow. For a second or so, he remained there, unwilling to move, a little shaken by the events. However, the cries of his fellow hostages spurred him to rise to his feet, then trot towards the side of the roof, pressing himself against the wall.

He watched as the lift door slid shut, and the metal cage floated up into the air, like a bizarre caricature of a balloon.

'Now what?' one of the other guards asked. As if to answer his question, the lights snapped off suddenly, plunging them into darkness. Fergus let out a hollow laugh.

'Perhaps we all have a nap?' he asked wryly, tucking his hands into his pockets. 'I trust you've all still got your torches?'

In the madness following the siege, most of the attackers had been a little bewildered by the success, and thus, they'd forgotten to do a complete search of the prisoners. Yes, they removed the guns, boots and watches, anything that could be used as an offensive weapon – was there any other type? – before giving them a vague pat-down. But as they'd felt the pockets, they found that they were mostly empty. A few bits of change, packets of gum, nothing of any note. Anything important was left in the lockers during the shift. But they all had a regulation torch on them as they were working. A joke regularly made its way around the Centre how the torches were akin to Fergus himself – small and dim. He'd always meant to do something about that, but never had the heart.

Around 30 circles of yellow light appeared on the walls and roof, dancing about like fairies in a forest. They flickered from spot to spot, each of them combing through the darkness for anything of import.

'Now, see if you can find the telephone.' Fergus said, trying to make his voice as booming as possible. 'Probably disconnected, but worth a shot.'

'And say what?' said the same guard from earlier. 'Help, we've come across a better set of traitors?!'

'Just find the phone! We'll cross that bridge when we get there.'

Outside the Centre, strolling across the white stone path were two figures, both dressed in perfect suits. The figure to the right was carrying a bulky attaché case, made of false leather and a plastic interior, its sides slightly convex from the contents inside.

They approached the main door the Centre, and despite the carnage surrounding them, simply opening the wooden door a crack and entered the building, ignoring the disaster area surrounding them.

It was Alistair and Sir Fisher.

'Where to now, sir?' Alistair asked, gently shutting the door behind them. Sir Fisher left out a large huff, as he looked up and down the seemingly endless corridors.

'To the…left, I should think.' He replied, setting off towards the first door. 'According to the plans, the library _should_ be down here, but you know how builders are…'

Ten minutes and seven wrong turns later, they made it to the library. They were greeted with every occupant of the room standing to attention, or at least, the cheap civilian mockery of it.

'Alright.' Sir Fisher said, relieving them. 'No need for the ceremony. We've got a job to do, so let's do it.'

The briefcase popped open, revealing the mess of wires and diodes inside. To the untrained eye, it looked like someone had simply stuffed as much of the stuff into the case as quickly as possible, like they were stealing from an electronics shop. But to the trained eye, it was clearly a carefully plotted arrangement, one that had taken months of planning to shuffle together.

Sir Fisher produced six ends of wire from the case, each only six inches long and with a socket at the other end. As he dangled them over the side of the case, some of the squaddies brought forth cables, which neatly plugged into the sockets. The cables ran across the library, plugging into six tall, thin panels of reflective metal. They were arranged in a loose hexagon, with each mirror facing another directly and the case sitting on a table in the middle.

Next, Sir Fisher pulled out a cartridge from the centre of the case. It was plugged into the rest of the kit, but a small door was connected to the side. It swung open, ready to receive its meal. Sir Fisher dug around in his pocket, before pulling out a small green crystal. Upon noticing his colleague's curious expression, he explained:

'Energy device. Bought it at an auction a couple of years ago. Took my best expert nine months to figure out what the hell it was. Do you remember those nation-wide power-cuts two months ago? I was charging this up.'

The colleague chuckled at the comment, clearly amused by the notion. However, he stopped laughing:

'You're serious?'

'Deadly.' Sir Fisher inserted the crystal into the cartridge, before clicking the door shut. He dropped it back into the case, and then dug around for the next tool. The whole room started to hum, a sound and feel reminiscent of an amplifier without any notes being played.

Finally, he found the trigger unit, no larger than a pen. It was sleek black, although from the end protruded a red button. He gripped the unit in his hands, thumb hovering over the button…then he pressed down.

A bright beam of light, pure white, shot from the case, over towards the first panel. It shot into the metal, then ricocheted off, meeting the next panel, then the next and then the next. Soon enough, the beam of light was formed a six-pointed star in the room, a single, unbroken line of splendour.

Where the six lines met in the centre, a white ball started to form, swelling and growing ever-so-slightly.

'Sir?' Alistair asked nervously, backing away a little. 'I think it would be best if you retreated, sir.'

'What?! Nonsense.' Sir Fisher replied, not taking his gaze away from the case. 'It's all going perfectly. It's all safe!'

'If…If you say so, sir.' Alistair nodded slowly, gripped by poorly concealed terror.

The white ball was about to consume Sir Fisher, dancing around the top of his head…then it passed over him. The rest of him followed suit, slowly being swallowed whole by the spectacle. Before Alistair could cry out, his master was completely inside the white ball.

It continued to grow, spreading across the room, like a translucent bubble. Alistair ducked his face beneath his arm, covering his eyes. And then it stopped.

The room fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of its occupants. They all looked around, clearly expecting to find something much worse than the unnerving serene that greeted them.

The white ball had finished growing, its skin shifting and morphing, but otherwise motionless. It didn't extend beyond the limit of the mirrors, just grazing up against them ever so gently.

In the centre stood Sir Fisher, triumphant and joyful. He crossed his arms, sending a particularly smug expression to Alistair.

'I told you it was safe, didn't it?' he asked, laughing a little. Putting his hands back into his pockets, he started to walk across the room, exiting the bubble. 'I know, it's a bit strange. Come on, I'll tell you about it over tea.'

Five minutes later, Alistair had followed Sir Fisher across the room and through the corridors, the latter clearly searching for a nice private spot to discuss the matter in.

'Now,' Sir Fisher said, at last content with the surroundings. 'I'm sure you'll have a couple of questions to ask me. I'll see what I can do about them. But first things first; can you remember our friends?'

'Friends, sir?'

'No, I thought not…' Sir Fisher mused pensively, mostly to himself. 'They said they'd try, but it might not work…alright. Do you remember the photographer, at the house the other night?'

'Yes.'

'Good. What happened to him?'

'Well…' Alistair started slowly, uncertain of how the sentence was going to end. 'He…ran away, sir.'

'Yes, but why?'

'We scared him away, didn't we?'

'Did we?'

'Well, we must've done!'

'Are you sure?'

'No, it was…it was…'

'Yes?'

'Something…' Alistair groaned, irritated at his failure before his master. 'Something…why can't I remember?'

'What it was, Alistair…' came the reply 'was a member of an alien species. If they choose so, they can altered the memory and perception of anything around them, anything at all.'

'I see…'

'If they're so asked, it is somewhat possible for them to restore these memories to the observer, for whatever reason. Not always, but usually. I asked ours to return yours to you.'

'So these…aliens, you're in congress with them, sir?'

'In a manner of speaking, yes. Although, to be entirely honest, I've got an even better idea for what to do with them. That arrangement, in the library? All those mirrors and cables and so forth? It emits a field of perfect-wave light. Anything solid can pass through it easily enough, but these creatures, they're not solid. To them, it is as impenetrable as a brick wall is to you or I.'

'I think I understand, sir.'

'My plan is to spread the field over the Centre, at the very least. I happen to know that this place is of supreme importance to the aliens. I can't tell you how or why, but it's a hefty bargaining chip.'

'But what if they catch you?'

'I very much doubt that they will. I have, in my possession, the one thing in creation that can stop them.'

The area rumbled, like it had been hit with the strongest earthquake imaginable. The Doctor rocked from side to side, trying to find something to steady himself. Something's wrong, he mused silently. Very wrong indeed.

When one faced as much havoc as he did, one started to recognise the early symptoms. The stillness in the air, the scent of worry and panic, the silence of animals, all too afraid to chirrup or caw in fear of attracting unwanted attention. It would almost be a sixth sense, if he didn't already possess twenty three.

It was almost as if the voice was howling in anger.

'Something the matter?' he asked, trying to force a touch of humour into his voice. 'Perhaps it's something you've eaten?'

' _Betrayal_.' the voice replied, the word seemingly a foreign concept to the alien tongue. ' _Deceit. Trickery_.'

'Infamy, blasphemy, alchemy?' the Doctor offered helpfully.

' _The nexus will suffer for this. Prepare an assault_.'

'The nexus?' the Doctor repeated, as the horror started to sink in. 'Oh, no, no, no…'

'Nexus?' the man queried 'What's the nexus?'

'Bad news.' replied the Doctor grimly. 'Very bad news indeed. If just one cog moves out of turn…no, it can't be happening.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I've got to get out of here. I've got to warn them!'

'Well, good luck with the escape plan!' the man said, laughing for the first time in ages. 'Might be just a little bit difficult to escape!'

'No, I don't think so,' the Doctor 'not if you happen to know what you're doing.'

'I'd like to see you think your way out of this one, then!'

'As it happens…' the Doctor purred 'that is exactly what I intend to do…'

Naomi shot awake, sucking in a sudden gasp of breath. For a few seconds, she lay there motionless, trying to take in what had just happened.

Her hands were balled into tight fists, her hair plastered with sweat and eyes wide open. Had it been a nightmare? Not that she could remember. She hadn't faded back into reality, like when she left an alarm on, or the window open and a draught tickled her into consciousness. It was the sharp, glaring burst of energy.

Quickly, she placed her thumb over her wrist, checking her pulse. It was racing away. That would explain the breathlessness. No doubt her vascular system was pumping tons of serotonin and adrenaline through her body, springing every part of her into life.

It was almost as if she'd had a scare, like a premonition of something to come. Something she'd rather prefer to avoid completely.

She flopped back onto the bed, taking a series of deep breaths, determined to steady her racing heart. The bright green side of her alarm clock told her it had just gone five in the morning. Any second now, the morning sun would start to dawn over London. Oh, well. She might as well just get up now, anyway.

As she climbed reluctantly out of the bed, she pulled on the dressing gown, wandering in the vague direction of the shower. A good burst of hot water would definitely wake her properly.

The constant rush of water ran through her sweaty hair, down her freezing body and into the drain just underneath her feet, slowly warming her up. Ten minutes later, she was half-dressed, heading through to the kitchen to treat herself to a daily coffee in the morning.

Underneath her bed was a notepad that she'd left there overnight. When the lights went out at ten o'clock, it was completely blank. But now, it was marked with hundreds upon hundreds of markings, all over-lapping, in various sizes and styles.

X. X. X. X. X.


	16. Chapter 16 - The Beginning of the End

Chapter 16: The Beginning of the End

A storm started to gather in the sky, like the thunderball of an explosion gathering together and then throwing itself apart in a violent display of strength. The murky clouds spread across the countryside, like the tendrils of a particularly nasty case of poison ivy, or Japanese knotweed.

An ocean's worth of rain started to pour from the clouds, drenching the grass and trees beneath it. It was a downpour like nothing before it, the rain pelting against anything solid like heavy artillery from an airstrike. Anyone with an IQ in the triple digits would be considering building an ark, and putting in all the animals, two-by-two.

A few lashes of lightening flickered across the sky, too far away and too weak to do any damage to the world below it outside of spooking a few horses. But its purpose wasn't to deal damage to its victims. It was a warning shot, the first shell dropped in the war.

It was a battle-cry.

All across the land, the enemy gathered, preparing itself for the onslaught. It raised its army of life and death, and laid the final plans of combat. Entire worlds trembled in fear of the force that awaited the victim, and civilisations have fallen to dust out of sheer terror.

It was coming. And there was nothing that could be done to stop it.

'Looks like a storm's coming on.' Eric murmured, as the gallons of rainwater trickled down the outside of the window. 'That's strange. Weather said clear skies all week.'

'That was last week.' Lois replied, as she shuffled through the sheets of paper. 'You know what the weather's like. Up one minute, down the next. Like a metronome!'

'Oh, enough about the weather! Have you found it?'

'Are you sure it's in here?'

'…Maybe. I don't know!' Eric cried bluntly, sitting down on the crate next to him. 'We've had so much stuff moved around in here, it was probably burnt for firewood in riots years ago.'

'If we don't find the plans, we could be stuck here for quite a while.'

'I know! Any word on the police escort?'

'They'd have a hard time reaching us. The phone lines have been cut.'

'What?!'

'Not even a dial-tone. D'you think it's the people at the Centre?'

'Possibly…' Eric said, rubbing his head slowly as the news sank in. 'I don't see why though.'

'Isolate us?'

'Maybe. Might as well just shoot us. No need to keep alive.'

Lois gasped out a sudden, solitary laugh. 'You've cheered up, then.'

'Just thinking objectively.' Eric answered, raising his hands in defence. But then, a bolt of inspiration hit him. 'Just a thought…does the television still work?'

'I'd imagine so, yes.'

'Right. Turn it on.'

Lois darted through the doorway, into the next room. The room had been in the same arrangement for years, ever since Eric moved out of the cottage. A padded sofa sat in front of a carbon-dated television set, with bookshelves to one side and a table to the other.

Thankfully, the television was resting on a set of four wheels, which squeaked and screeched away as she wheeled it into the main room. The thick black power cord trailed behind it, like the mark of a rather odd snail.

'Okay, now give me a sec…' Lois mumbled, as she fiddled with the knobs and dials embedded into the side of the set. The screen clicked as the power switched on, but the obligatory hum failed to appear.

'It's not working, is it?' Eric asked, from the other side of the room.

'No. Sorry.' came the weary reply, as the power switch was flicked off. 'Might have to miss _Eastenders_ for today.'

'It makes sense.'

'How?'

'Why the phone's gone dead. Why nobody out there,' he pointed through the window, towards the lightless twilight village 'has their lights on. Everything electronic has been taken out.'

'An EMP strike!' Lois sighed, as she finally understood.

'Seems to be. Could be the army, trying to stop the people in the Centre.'

'Let's hope so. We need all the help we can get.'

As the rain pattered on the wafer-thin windows, all of the figures tightened their jackets around themselves, desperate to preserve what little heat they could. The water was sloshing around the open-top office, the raging winds creating miniature waves that thrashed against the walls.

At the orders of the superior officers, the door had been shut, with lengths of masking tape left around the side to waterproof it. And with that, they left it behind, hoping the weather would soon resolve itself.

'Typical.' Riley grunted, brushing some flecks of water off of his jacket. 'Middle of summer, and we get a monsoon! Just when we need it!'

'Sir!' came a voice from down the corridor. Riley turned to face it. It was Lloyd, his impromptu uniform sopping wet. He charged through the puddles left behind on the floor, his rubber soles squelching away. 'The radios! They're not working?'

'Turn it off and on again, then.'

'No, sir! None of them! None at all!'

'What? None of them?!'

'They just won't turn on.'

'Most likely water damage.'

'Even the ones that have stayed inside.'

'Right…' Riley started to stroke his chin. 'I think I'm starting to see a problem here…'

Further down the corridor, safely inside the library, there was a gentle putting. It was almost silent, so quiet that most people present didn't hear it at first. However, it was the carefully trained eye of Alistair that first pricked at the sound.

'Sir?' he said, walking down towards the array. 'I think something's wrong…'

'Wrong? Wrong how?!' Sir Fisher shot back, leaping out of his seat and sprinting across the room.

'It's making a funny sound…'

The white light started to flicker, the otherwise perfect shape shifting into curves and bends. It became more transparent, the opposite sides of the room glimpsing at each other through the veil.

'No…no!' Sir Fisher shouted, running through the light and over to the briefcase. 'This can't be happening!'

'What is it, sir?'

'There must be a technical fault somewhere…but I don't see how! It was built to the exact specifications!'

He popped open the case, examining the crystal. It was glowing, as if it was trying to scream out for help in a desperate stab for survival. As Sir Fisher tried to reclaim it, his fingers recoiled the second they made contact.

'It's hot!' he explained, staring in bemusement at the sight. 'White hot!'

The lights all around him began humming, fading in and out of power like a man on the brink of unconsciousness. And then finally, after much heaving and moaning, they clicked into blackness.

40 metres below them, the menagerie of torches turned off simultaneously. Every single guard then inspected their torch, rapped on the side of it hard, then tutted in irritation, in perfect synchronisation.

'Ruddy cheap batteries…' ranted Fergus to himself.

The Doctor tried to shift himself from left to right, trying to get free of the area. The atmosphere around him was growing thinner and thinner, and constantly on the move, as if something was sucking it out. It was quite a new sensation for him, feeling the edges of his mind slipping away alongside the motion, slowly but surely falling numb. It was new, but that didn't make it pleasant.

He gained his bearings, carefully feeling the movement of the area. It wasn't in a certain direction like the wind or tide would move, but through the fourth and fifth dimensions. After a couple of seconds, or at least what seemed like that, he was almost sure of where he had to go.

Gingerly, he pressed himself against the surge, feeling his body cry out at the resistance. He ignored the pain, carrying on regardless. As he moved closer to his goal, he found himself crying out in pain. That was another new experience; as a Time Lord, he had a much higher pain threshold than most humans, but that didn't mean he was impervious.

The voice started to cheer somewhat, rejoicing in the fact that they finally had found a way to hurt him. The pain increased, doubling, trebling, mounting up as he fought back even harder.

'There we are…!' the Doctor grunted, through gritted teeth. 'Something going wrong?'

' _Nothing of value_.' the voice replied, a poor attempt at hiding the sadistic glee surrounding it. ' _Nothing irreparable_.'

'Just preparing up the battleground? Readying the troops?'

' _Setting the board, Doctor_.'

'Game on, then. First to the finish.'

'D…d…Doctor?' said the man, his voice barely more than a whisper. 'What's happening?'

His voice was tainted with the sense of death, the inevitability of entropy. It wasn't the resilient yell of glory, but the diminutive sigh of defeat.

'I…I can't remember anything.'

'Of course,' the Doctor muttered 'You'll use up anything you've got on hand. Anything you can g _rrrr_ ab hold of, and suck it until it's dry. Vampires.'

'What's happening? Doctor?'

He repeated his mantra over and over, trying to reassure himself that he was going to be alright, despite the knowledge he was holding onto. As he slowly expired and vanished to oblivion, his cries of 'Doctor? Doctor? Doctor?' faded into nothingness. The Doctor felt a pang of regret in his chest, as he felt the vacuum left by the victim filled in by more of the same.

His body, or what little of it there was left, started to stretch and contort, as he was moving from one form to another to another. As his body fell into its base components and started to reform in new ways over and over, two words rang through his mind, dragging him through the pain:

'Game. On.'

Mel climbed up the steps, using the handrail to force herself through the doorway. To be honest, she was appalled at herself. There were always two sides to a story, surely she knew that? She'd shouldn't have shouted at Eric so easily, and stropping in the cellar wasn't going to help anything.

She'd find the others and apologise, then get on with the matter at hand. That's what the Doctor would do, isn't it?

The whole house was almost completely dark, with the lights turned off and dusk sinking into the scene. Silence masked the house, pierced only by the faint rustling of paper.

Slowly, she walked towards the sound, almost creeping towards it. She passed over the threshold of the room, watching the dual occupants inside sort through the sheets of paper. Eric and Lois, both hunched over a cardboard box each. A floorboard creaked beneath her, and the two glanced up to see her.

'Oh. Hi.' Eric said, before returning to his work.

'Eric, I'm sorry,' Mel said, walking towards him. 'I shouldn't have lost my temper before. I should've listened to what you had to say first.'

'It's alright,' he replied, nodding his head gently.

Mel took the gesture happily, before getting back on track: 'So what are we doing?'

'At the moment? Looking for the plans for the cottage. When the Centre was first formed, we had a few tunnels installed. One to the Centre, in case we needed to escape. One leading from the cottage to the church, just across the green. The latter's been here for years; we just renovated certain areas.'

'The only problem being,' Lois added 'that we don't know where it is.'

'It goes from the office in the Centre to here, but the entrance from this end was only marked in the plans.'

'What would it be filed under?' asked Mel, whilst she looked up and down the office.

'It wouldn't.' Lois replied curtly. 'Needless to say, the filing system rather fell apart during the '92 riots.'

Mel hummed in agreement, as she saw the disorganised mess all around them. Her uncle had once searched through his entire office for a single sheet paper, and turned out every filing cabinet, box and notebook in order to find. But even that monstrosity paled in comparison to this abomination.

'But what would it be called?' she asked, peering over the nearest pile of papers.

'Er…Grover Plans. White, A4.'

'Okay…ah ha!' Mel cheered, as she leapt across the room. She dipped her nimble fingers into a mess of papers in one corner, and pulled out a single sheet.

'That's it!' Lois shouted, double-checking it full of incredulity. 'How did you do that?'

'Oh, it was simple, really,' Mel smiled, folding her arms. 'I came in here before looking for the kitchen, and saw the paper. I just remembered where it was.'

'Good memory you've got.'

'Thank you. Would be much easier if the lights were on, though…' Mel added hastily, walking towards the light-switch.

'Anything electric's not working.' Eric explained, reaching out a hand to stop her. 'We've tried.'

'Oh, right.'

'Probably an EMP strike from the army. We'll just have to wait and see what happens.'

'Yes…' Mel started, before clicking her fingers: 'I think I saw some candles in the kitchen. We could light them before it gets too dark?'

'I'll help…' Lois finished, heading towards the kitchen. However, she stopped suddenly. Her feet were firmly planted onto the ground, rooted like great oaks. 'Mel…?'

Her comrade walked towards her, smiling away. The second she rounded the corner, the smile vanished from her face.

'Oh no…' Mel groaned, stepping backwards subconsciously. Just underneath the door, slipping through the crack at the bottom…

…was a faint green mist.

The Doctor screamed, howling out any remnant of pain remaining in his body. He was being forced out of the ground, ejected from the host like a failed parasite.

The dirt wasn't moving out of his way like when a corpse rises from its grave, but it was reforming around him. He placed his hand through the top layer of earth, bursting back into the real word.

Rebirth.

As his hand clawed about in the new-found fresh air, he was instantly aware of the pounding of hundreds of minute pellets of rain hitting his flesh.

His other hand broke through the ground, slipping through like gel. Gradually, he pulled his head and torso up, shifting through the grass. He gasped for breath, at last free of the stale reproduction of his bypass system and able to enjoy the fresh air.

Finally, he tugged his legs through the layer, resting on the ground for a short while. It turned solid again, back to the normal ground he was expected. If he were to try digging back where he had just come through, he'd get nothing more than a few handfuls of dirt.

The rain poured over him, a non-stop rushing of water. He was already soaked to the skin, every stitch of fabric on him dripping wet. His muscle memory reached for the umbrella, but it wasn't there. Of course. He left it behind at the apartment.

He stared above him, watching the lightning crack the sky open and the clouds zoom about like swarms of insects. A surging of potential, the possibilities of life, death, creation and destruction all mixing together in a celestial crucible, ringing with the intent of war. Focussing on the spectacle before him, he balled his fists together and let a scowl consume his face. It was coming.

The field started to warp around him, the trees bending and the grass curling inwards. It was already acting against him, trying to drag him back down one last time. A large black hole formed directly beneath him, tugging him down like quicksand. As he started to struggle against the force, he could be heard to utter only a single pair of words:

'Oh dear.'


End file.
